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CBITICAL   ESSAYS 


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LITERARY    NOTES 


BY 


BAYARD   TAYLOR 

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NEW   YOBE 

G.  P.   PUTNAM'S  SONS 
183  FoTB  AvBiiro 

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Till 


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DUOPAGE 


J  Reproduced  by  XEROGRAPHY 
\  by  Mioro  Photo  Inc. 

Cleveland  12.  Ohio 


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PREFACE. 


Thk  following  pages  may  l»o  said  to  fonn  a  soqiiol 
to  tho  "Studies  in  Gorman  Literature"  published  last 
autumn,  inasmuch  as  they  show  what  the  author  accom- 
plished in  the  way  of  briefer  literary  and  analytical 
criticism,  It  was  only  in  tho  latter  part  of  liis  very 
active  life,  and  chiefly  by  force  of  circumstance,  that 
he  was  led — in  tlie  midst  of  other  work — to  devoto 
himself  more  earnestly  to  critical  writing,  which  he 
considered  an  assistance  toward  attaining,  but  not  as 
N^  being  essential  to,  his  great  object  in  life, 
^  After  he  had  arrived  at  that  mature  stage  of  exist- 

J*'     once,    when    all    the    energy    inherent   in    liis   nature 
turned  toward  tho  higher  forms  of  creative  art,  ho  was 
c       driven    back  by  an  adverse  fate  to  the  field  of  daily 
^       journalism,  which  he  had  loft  uioyq  than  twenty  years 
^        before,  as  ho  then  thought  never  to  return.    His  life 
consequently  became  a  much   more  laborious  one  than 
S       ever,  not  now  from  free  choice  as  hitherto,  but  from 
^      necessity.    Yet,  amid  the  severe  pressure  of  his  daily 


)      tasks,  and  the  diversity  of  subjects  which  came  under 

610 


iv  PREFACE. 

his  ever  ready  pen,  lie  never  for  a  moment  diecarded 
tliat  Btrict  literary  conBcicnce  which  accompanied  him 
through  all  the  years  of  his  life — from  the  time  when 
his  youthful  mind  first  awoke  to  the  conscioushess  of 
an  author,  until  that  day  arrived  when  all  earthly  con- 
Bciousiicss  ceased  for  ever.  The!  work  he  did,  either  in 
the  service  of  the  paper  on  whoso  staff  he  was  em- 
ployed or  for  the  periodicals  that  invited  his  contribu- 
tions, was  done  with  the  same  jcare  which  ho  bestowed 
on  all  that  he  wrote  for  his  own  purposes  and  his  own 
special  gratification.  As  the  conditioning  of  things  ter- 
i-ostrial  calls  for  light  where  there  is  shadow,  for  com- 
pensating circumstances  where  there  are  trials,  thus, 
amidst  the  cloudiness  of  sore  and  often  uncongenial 
labor,  there  were  intervals  of  grateful  sunshine.  These 
came  when  he  was  called  upon  to  use  his  higher  capa- 
bilities for  the  purpose  of  pronouncing  on  the  writings 
of  known  and  famous  authors,  or  the  life-work  of  rep- 
resentative men  and  women.  There  were  reasons  why 
this  task  should  be  enjoyable : — his  extensive  knowl- 
edge, his  large  personal  experience,  his  intense  love  for 
literature  and  art,  and  his  earnest  desire  to  see  the 
realm  of  letters  grow  in  excellence  and  rise  to  pre-eml* 
Hence  in  his  own  country — all  this  fitted  and  inspired 
him  for  his  work.  Minor  considerations  were  of  tliem- 
selves  excluded  from  his  critical  writings.  These  were 
the  consummate  conclusions  of  his  mature  intellect, 
based  on  that  lofty  ideal  of  beauty  which  is  the  true 
foundation  of  all  Art. 


P  KEF  ACE,  V 

Owing  to  the  small  epaco  allowed  in  joiinialism, 
which  does  not  pennit  any  but  a  brief  expression  of 
opinions  and  criticisms,  some  of  the  reviews  contained 
in  this  volume  may  appear  to  be  aphoristic;  but  they 
will  nevertheless  not  be  found  wanting  in  suggestive- 
ness  and  in  depth  of  thought,  and,  therefore,  they  will 
be  of  value  to  the  lover  of  literature. 

With  the  exception  of  a  few  articles,  sucli  as  those 
on  Ilebel,  Ileavysoge,  Kiickert,  and  Thackeray — the 
latter  consisting  of  personal  reminiscences — the  matter 
included  in  this  volume  is  the  product  of  a  more  or 
loss  recent  date.  It  has  been  collected  from  the  pages 
of  The  Atlantic  Monthly^  The  Jntemational  Review^ 
ScribnerU  Magazine^  The  North  American  Review^  and 
from  the  columns  of  The  New  York  Tribune,  Most 
of  the  "Notes  on  Books  and  Events"  were  originally 
contributed  to  the  last  mentioned  journal,  from  the  iiles 
of  which  they  have  been  obtained  with  the  kind  and 
generous  assistance  of  its  chief  editor.  They  are  but  a 
minute  proportion  of  all  of  Bayard  Taylor's  critical  and 
editorial  contributions  to  that  paper,  and  have  been  se- 
lected not  merely  with  regard  to  their  contemporary 
interest,  but  also  with  a  view  to  their  possible  vahio  to 
the  future  student  of  literature. 

The  "Days  at  Weimar"  have  been  included  in  this 
volume  as  possessing  a  decidedly  literary  interest,  since 
they  give  evidence  of  the  researches  and  studies  of  the 
author  for  that  combined  Life  of  Goethe  and  Schiller| 


Vi  PREFACE, 

which,  aB  it  unfortunately  was  written  only  on  the  tab- 
lets of  his  brain,  liad  to  perish  witli  him.  It  will  not 
escape  the  observant  reader  how  largo  an  amount  of 
gleanings  from  the  yet  unexhausted  harvest  of  personal 
reminlBcences  atid  local  tradition  there  was  stored  away 
for  future  ubo  in  the  author*s  mind.  Gaining  a  clear 
insight  into  his  great  theme  and  contemplated  task,  he 
became  imbued  in  those  days  with  conclusive  light, 
and  whilst  he  vainly  hoped,  fi*om  year  to  year,  to  pre- 
sent to  the  world  the  plan  which  he  had  conceived 
and  matured,  his  wonderful  memory  grasped  it  and  re- 
tained it  in  its  fulhicHH  to  the  very  last. 

If  some  of  the  "Notes**  contained  within  this  vol- 
ume should  be  considered  of  slight  importance  by  the 
reader,  the  blame  thereof  will  have  to  bo  laid  to  the 
editor,  who  may  have  been  over-anxious  in  somo  in- 
stances to  save  from  oblivion — which  is  too  often  the 
unJuKt  and  undeserved  fiite  of  daily  Journalistic  labors 
•—as  much  of  the  author*s  "brain-work*'  as  seemed  to 
her  to  bo  her  duty  to  preserve. 

MAUIl^:   HANHKN-TAYLOIl. 
Nrw  Youk,  Aprils  1880. 


OOHTENTS. 


PAOB 

Preface , iii 

Tennyson 1 

VitTOH  Hugo 37 

The  German  Burns...., ,.., 55 

Friedrich  RUckert Od 

The  Author  op  "Saul" , ,  113 

William  Makepeace  Thackehay 134 

Autumn  Days  in  Weimar 155 

Weimaii  in  June 208 

NOTES  ON  BOOKS  AND  EVENTS. 

Fits-Orebne  Halleck. 

Dedication  of  the  Halleck  Monument 233 

The  Halleck  Statue  in  Central  Park 245 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

Translation  of  the  Iliad 258 

Poems 276 

KicuARD  Henry  Dana 277 

George  Sand 280 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

Victorian  Poets. 284 

Hawthorne  and  other  Poems 291 

John  Qreenleaf  Whittier •«.•.. 294 

Henrt  Wadsworth  Longfellow « 296 


Viil  CONTENTS. 

Jambs  Rubskll  Lowbll « •  208 

Olivbb  Wendbxl  Holmbb •..*  901 

TuoMAs  Bailby  Aldkicii '..*...*. » . « .  803 

J.J.  AND  8.  M.  B.  Piatt 804 

Richard  Watson  Gilder...... 808 

(iRoROK  Parhons  Latiirop , 310 

Sidney  Lanikh.. ; » * 813 

Urorqb  D.  Prkntick 814 

The  Right  Hon.  The  Marquis  ok  Lornb. «.  818 

William  Morris..  . . , , 831 

Lord  IIouohton.. •  • 830 

Christina  Rossbtti. 330 

German  Hymnolooy. • 833 

George  Eliot. 839 

Robert  Buchanan 847 

'•Ouida" , 853 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne.. 854 

Henry  Jambs»  Jr 857 

William  D.  Howells 801 


Elizaiietii  Stuart  Phelps.. 
Three  American  Novels.., 


867 

871 

Pay  for  Brain. Work 870 

Authorship  IN  America. ..,...%...... ..••.»•.... • 878 


TENNYSON. 


ALFEED  TENNYSON  mnst  be  clagsed  among  the 
most  fortunate  poets  of  all  time.  lie  discovered  the 
true  capacities  of  his  genius  while  still  in  the  first  freshness 
and  ardor  of  youth,  overcame  doubt  and  hostile  criticism 
before  his  prime,  and  has  already  lived  to  see  his  predomi- 
nant influence  upon  the  poetic  literature  of  his  day,  "What 
ever  judgment  may  be  passed  upon  his  work,  his  position 
and  influence  are  beyond  dispute.  Posterity  may  take 
away  a  portion  of  what  he  has  received,  but  can  not  give 
him  more.  It  is  possible,  therefore,  although  he  is  still 
vigorously  and  successfully  productive,  to  review  his  liter- 
ary career  with  something  of  the  unreserve  which  we 
usually  apply  only  to  the  authors  of  the  past. 

Mr.  Stedman,  in  his  "Victorian  Poets,"  has  discussed^ 
Tennyson's  genius  with  such  breadth  and  clear  judicial 
insight  that  the  outline  is  complete.  I  should  not  venture 
upon  a  field  so  competently  surveyed,  were  my  purpose 


2  BSSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

precisely  the  samer  IBut  there  is  always  a  certain  differ- 
ence in  individual  vision,  even  when  it  has  the  same  general 
direction :  and,  moreover,  I  propose  to  deal  entirely  with 
some  characteristics  of  Tennyson's  poetical  growth  and 
development,  which,  although  they  have  not  been  over- 
looked by  his  critics,  are  capable  of  fuller  illustration  than 
they  have  yet  received.  The  poet's  intellectual  biography, 
as  wo  deduce  it  from  his  works  and  such  scanty  details  of 
his  life  as  are  generally  known,  is  of  a  very  exceptional  and 
interesting  character:  it  illustrates  the  value  of  art  in 
literature  as  that  of  no  other  famous  poet,  with  the  possible 
oxcejition  of  Schiller.  Unlike  as  are  the  two,  their  lives 
coincide  in  the  utmost  devotion  to  a  definite  aim — in  the 
one  case  fulfilled  in  spite  of  poverty,  persecution,  and  all 
manner  of  adverse  circumstance :  in  the  other,  in  spite  of 
early  discouragement,  later  ease,  and  the  temptations  of 
an  almost  unlimited  popularity.  Schiller's  first  literary 
venture,  "The  Robbers,"  carried  Germany  by  storm,  and 
made  his  name  known  in  France  and  England ;  Tennyson's 
only  provoked  the  bewildered  wrath  of  Christopher  North 
and  the  flippant  satire  of  Bulwer,  Schiller  experienced 
the  inevitable  reaction  of  ix)pular  favor,  as  he  began  to  do 
sounder  and  stronger  work ;  Tennyson  slowly  and  steadily 
won  that  favor,  by  disregarding  the  sneers  which  greeted 
his  early  performance  and  holding  to  his  faith  in  the 
divine  right  of  poetry.  The  former  died  just  as  the  con- 
sciousness that  his  achievement  was  recognized  by  the 
world  came  to  him  from  the  world;  the  latter  has  lived 


TENNYSON,  .  3 

for  twenty  years  in  the  proud  consciousneRS  of  such  recog- 
nition. Yet  the  govcniing  principle  of  the  two  lives  lias 
been  the  same,  and  the  end  has  nobly  justified  it.  Poetry 
says  to  her  chosen,  "  Give  up  all  that  thou  liast,  and  follow 
me  I "  Yet  how  few  of  tlieui  that  are  called  heed  the  call  1 
Nay,  how  few  are  able  to  heed  it  I  For  the  poet  is  not  less, 
but  more,  a  man :  dowered  with  "  the  love  of  love,"  he  least 
of  all  men  can  renounce  wife,  home  and  family,  and  the 
duties  they  include,  Unless  bom  under  a  fortunate  star, 
and  released  from  the  petty  cares  that  wear  away  by  slow 
attrition  the  eager  keenness  and  brightness  of  his  imagina- 
tive faculty,  he  is  too  often  compelled  to  choose  between 
the  temptation  of  turning  to  lower  and  more  remiinerativo 
labor,  and  the  prospect  of  making  those  nearest  and  dearest 
to  him  bear  the  weight  of  his  sacrifice.  Schiller  heroically 
resisted  the  temptation;  but  in  Tennyson's  case  it  was 
probably  never  present,  at  least  in  its  bare  inexorable  form. 
Ho  was  not  rich,  but  neither  could  ho  be  called  poor.  We 
Lave,  as  yet,  but  little  knowledge  of  his  life  from  the  ago 
of  twenty-two  to  thirty-two ;  but  that  very  fact  indicates 
that  this  period  was  marked  by  no  serious  vicissitudes  of 
fortune.  As  far  as  the  world  knows,  his  days  have  pre- 
served a  singularly  even  tenor.  What  emotional  experi- 
ences, what  periods  of  spiritual  anxiety  and  suffering,  he 
has  passed  through  we  do  not  know  and  do  not  need  to  know ; 
but  for  thirty  years  we  have  seen  him  moderately  prosperous 
in  external  circumstances,  and  leading  a  quiet  life  of  surren*' 
der  to  his  art 


4  £SSA  yS  AND  NO  T£S, 

r 

The  fact  that  Buch  exclusive  devotion  haa  been  possible 
to  him  gives  him  a  separate  interest  in  the  long  line  of  the 
world's  poets.  He  took  the  talent,  bestowed  at  birth,  early 
estimated  its  full  character  and  value,  and  invested  it,  at 
cumulative  interest,  in  all  attainable  and  serviceable  know* 
ledge.  Few  poets — perhaps  none — have  ever  been  so  clear- 
ly conscious  of  the  exact  quality  of  their  gift,  and  so  wise 
in  their  disposition  to  increase  it.  His  intellectual  biog- 
raphy is,  therefore,  more  important  than  the  rather  une- 
ventful story  of  his  life,  and  if  I  attempt  an  outline  of  it  up 
to  a  certain  point,  I  may  be  able  to  thi*ow  some  little  light 
upon  his  works  from  a  source  outside  of  the  direct  line  of 
criticism.  In  such  a  biography  the  starting-point  is  no  less 
important  than  the  terminus.  It  is  quite  natural  that  an 
author  should  seek  to  suppress  his  first  crude  efforts,  and 
the  more  so  in  Tennyson's  case,  since  they  give  not  the 
slightest  earnest  of  his  later  performance.  His  share  in  the 
first  volume,  "Poems by  two  Brothers"  (published  in  1827 
or  '28),*  can  not  be  very  accurately  ascertained  now,  but 
the  book  is  so  absolutely  devoid  of  poetic  ability  that  fur- 
ther knowledge  is  not  required.  Nevertheless  his  prize 
university  poem  of  "  Timbuctoo,"  beginning  with  distinct 
Miltonic  echoes,  yet  constantly  breaking  into  brief  strains 
which  prefigure  the  character  of  his  own  later  blank  verse, 
lifts  itself  high  above  the  prim  conventional  level  of  its 
fellows.      Compared  with  the   resounding  platitudes  of 

*  So  far  as  I  know,  there  is  but  one  copy  in  this  country :  it  is  in  the 
possession  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  £.  H.  Chapin. 


TENNYSON,  6 

Heber  and  Milman,  it  expresses  an  independence  of  con- 
ception remarkable  in  one  so  young.    In  fact,  the  lines— 

**  Divinest  Atlantis,  whom  the  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later  name, 
Imperial  Eldorado,  roofed  with  gold  ; 
Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks  of  change, 
All  onset  of  capricious  accident, 
Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which  would  not  die," — 

might  have  been  written  at  any  later  period  of  his  life. 
They  illustrate  the  first  distinct  characteristic  of  his  genius 
«— an  exquisitely  luxurious  sense  of  the  charms  of  sound 
and  rhythm,  bjised  upon  an  earnest  if  not  equal  capacity 
for  sober  thought  and  reflection.  These  two  elements  coex- 
isted in  Tennyson's  mind,  but  were  not  developed  in  the 
same  proportion,  and  arc  not  always  perfectly  fused  in  his 
poetry.  Take  away  either,  and  the  half  of  his  achieve- 
ment, falling,  leaves  the  other  half  utterly  insecure.  The  aim 
of  his  life  has  been  to  correct  and  purify  a  power  which 
ho  possessed  almost  in  excess  at  the  start,  and  to  add  to  its 
kindred  and  necessary  power  by  all  the  aids  of  study  and 
science.  In  this  aim,  as  I  shall  endeavor  to  show,  ho  has 
both  succeeded  and  partially  failed. 

His  early  poems  show  a  considerable  amount  of  intel- 
lectual struggle,  "We  find  in  them  traces  of  the  influence 
of  Milton,  Shelley,  and  Barry  Cornwall,  but  very  rarely 
of  Keats,  of  whom  Tennyson  has  been  called  singularly 
enough,  the  lineal  poetical  child.  Indeed  he  and  Keats 
liave  little  in  common  except  the  sense  of  luxury  in  words. 


6  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

which  waa  bom  with  both,  and  could  not  be  ontgrown. 
But  the  echoes  of  Shelley,  in  the  poeing  afterwards  omit- 
ted from  the  volume  which  Tennyson  published  in  1830, 
are  not  to  be  mistaken.    Take  this  stanza  as  an  example: 

"The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaveiii 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea, 
The  fountain-pregnant  mountains  riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy, 
By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 

That  wander  round  their  windy  conei, 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 
Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change.** 

The  sign-manual  of  Barry  Cornwall  is  even  more  distinctly 
Bet  in  the  following : 

"  When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing 

Under  my  eye  ? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 

Over  the  sky  ? 
When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting  f 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beating, 

And  nature  die  ? 
Never,  oh  t  never,  nothing  will  die  t 

The  stream  flows. 

The  wind  blows, 

The  cloud  fleets, 

The  heart  beats  J 

Nothing  will  die.»» 


l^ENNYSON,  7 

The  poems  from  whicli  these  stanzas  are  taken,  as  well 
as  "The  Burial  of  Love,"  "Hero  to  Leander,"  and  "Ele- 
giacs,"  are  written  from  the  inspiration  which  dwell  in  mel- 
ody and  rhythm :  the  latter  is  a  not  wholly  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  add  rhyme  to  the  classic  elegiac  metre : 

**  Creeping  through  blossomy  rushes  and  bowers  of  rose-blowing 
bushes, 
Down  by  the  poplar  tall,  rivulets  babble  and  fall, 
Barketh    the    shepherd-dog  chcerly  ;    the   grasshopper    carolleth 
clearly  ; 
Deeply  the  turtle  coos  ;  shrilly  the  owlet  halloos  ; 
Winds  creep  ;  dews  fall  chilly  ;  in  her  first  sleep  earth  breathes 
stilly  ! 
Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water-gnats  murmur  and  mourn. 
Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth  :  the  glimmering  water  outflowcth  : 
Twin  peaks  shadowed  with  pine  slojic  to  the  dark  hyaline. 
Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between  the  two  peaks  :  but  the  Naiad 
Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him  beneath  in  her  breast,'* 

Here  the  conception,  as  a  picture,  is  so  obscure  that  two 
different  landscapes  are  suggested.  Yet  in  the  fragment  we 
seem  to  discover  the  seed  out  of  which  Swinburne's  poetry 
might  have  germinated.  Where,  then,  shall  we  look  for 
the  seed  of  Tennyson's  ?  I  do  not  refer  to  imitation  or 
even  to  unconscious  influence;  but  there  is  usually  some- 
thing in  each  generation  of  poets — often  some  slight, 
seemingly  accidental  form  of  utterance — which,  in  the 
following  generation,  expands  into  a  characteristic  quality. 
Examples  of  poetry  written  for  pure  delight  in  sound  and 


8  JSSSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 

movement  are  rare  before  Shelley's  day;  and  his  influence 
upon  Tennyson  was  very  transient.  A  better  prototype  it 
furnished  by  this  glittering  little  carol  from  Coleridge'a 
drama  of  "  Zapolya : " 

*'  A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold, 
From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted  : 

And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold- 
Sweet  bird  thou  wert  enchanted  ! 

He  sank,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  troUed 
"Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist  ; 

His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold, 
All  else  of  amethyst  I  '* 

The  substance  of  this  is  absolutely  nothing,  yet  the  sound 
forever  lingers  in  the  ear  like  the  whisper  in  the  folds  of 
a  seaHshell.  Tennyson's  "  Claribel "  is  a  precisely  similar  ex- 
ample, with  a  melody  in  the  minor  key.  In  the  volume 
published  in  1830,  the  poems  "  Lilian,"  "  The  Sea-Fairies," 
"  The  Dying  Swan,"  "  The  Merman,"  and  several  others, 
are  almost  equally  slight  in  conception,  while  brimming 
witli  the  luxury  of  a  rhythm  which  touches  the  intellec- 
tual palate  like  a  mellow  perfumed  wine.  In  "  Mariana," 
"The  Poet,"  and  the  sonnet  to  "J.  M.  K.,"  we  find  the 
earnest,  contemplative  side  of  the  poet's  nature,  still  lack- 
ing the  certainty  of  his  rhythmical  genius,  but  already  indi- 
cating the  basis  upon  which  he  has  built  up  all  that  is 
most  enduring  in  his  later  work. 

Inasnmch  as  the  first  of  these  two  distinct  elements  is 
undoubtedly  that  which  marks  Tennyson's  place  in  English 


TENNYSON",  9 

literature,  and  accounts  for  his  almost  phenomenal  popular- 
ity, it  deserves  a  careful  consideration.  Wo  find  premo- 
nitions  of  it  in  Byron's  "  Stanzas  for  Music ; "  in  passages 
of  Keats's" Hyperion;"  in  Shelley's  "Skylark,"  "Areth^ 
usa,"  and  tlie  choruses  in  "Prometheus  Unbound;"  in 
Coleridge,  Mrs,  Ilemans  (wlioso  passing  popularity  is  al- 
most wholly  forgotten  now),  and  Barry  Cornwall.  But  in 
Tennyson  it  first  found  superb  embodiment.  Before  him 
no  poet  dared  to  use  sound  and  metre  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  architect  and  sculptor  use  form,  and  the  painter  form 
and  color.  It  was  a  new  delight,  both  to  the  car  and  to 
an  unrecognized  sense  which  stands  between  sensuousness 
and  pure  intelligence.  Because,  more  than  most  poets,  ho 
consciously  possessed  his  power,  he  rapidly  learned  how  to 
use  it.  His  "Mariana,"  written  at  the  age  of  twenty,  is 
an  extraordinary  piece  of  minute  and  equally-finished  detail. 
The  scenery  represents  that  of  the  marshy  lowlands  of  Lin- 
colnshire ;  the  theme  was  suggested  by  a  phrase  of  Shake- 
speare  (a  peculiarity  wherein  Bro^vning,  in  "  Childe  Boland 
to  the  Dark  Tower  Came,"  has  followed  Tennyson) ;  and 
the  poem  is  a  picture  in  the  absolute  Pre-Raphaelite  man- 
ner, written  more  than  a  dozen  years  before  Pre-Raphael- 
ism  was  heard  of  in  art.  Tennyson,  once,  in  talking  with 
a  fellow-author  about  his  own  reluctance  to  publish  his 
poems,  said,  "  There  is  my  *  Mariana,'  for  example,  A  line 
in  it  is  wrong,  and  I  can  not  possibly  change  it,  because 
it  has  been  so  long  published ;  yet  it  always  annoys  me. 
I  wrote; 


I 
10  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

'  The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 
That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall.* 

Now,  this  Ib  not  a  characteristic  of  the  scenery  I  had  In 
mind.  The  line  should  be :  *  That  held  the  pear  to  the 
^tfi/«-walL'"  But  the  truth  is  that  one  who  feels  the  for- 
lomness  and  desolation  of  the  ballad  will  not  ask  whether 
this  or  that  detail  is  strictly  true  of  the  scenery  which  the 
author  may  have  had  in  his  mind.  "We  are  reminded  of 
some  of  our  own  art-critics  who  turn  away  from  the  face 
of  a  saint  or  hero  to  find  fault  with  the  form  of  a  leaf  or 
pebble  in  the  foreground.  The  chief  defect  of  Tennyson's 
poetry  is  indicated  in  this  over-anxiety  in  regard  to  un- 
important details :  it  will  be  referi*cd  to  again  when  I  come 
to  speak  of  his  total  achievement. 

No  English  poet,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Byron, 
has  so  ministered  to  the  natural  appetite  for  poetry  in  the 
people  as  Tennyson.  Byron  did  this— unintentionally,  as 
all  genius  does — by  warming  and  aix)using  their  dormant 
sentiment ;  Tennyson  by  surprising  them  into  the  recogni- 
tion of  a  new  luxury  in  the  hannony  and  movement  of 
poetic  speech.  I  use  the  word  "luxury"  purposely;  for 
no  other  word  will  oxprcss  the  glow  and  richness  and  full- 
ness of  his  technical  qualities.  It  Was  scarcely  a  wonder 
that  a  generation  accustomed  to  look  for  compact  and  pal- 
pable intellectual  fonns  in  poetry, — a  generation  which  was 
still  hostile  to  Keats  and  Shelley,  and  had  not  yet  caught 
up  with  AVordsworth — should  at  first  regard  this  new  flower 
as  an  interloping  weed.     But  when  its  blossom-buds  fully 


TENNYSOl/,  11 

expanded  into  gorgeous,  velvety-crimsoned  and  golden- 
anthered  tiger-lillies,  filling  the  atmosphere  of  our  day 
with  deep,  intoxicating  spice-odors,  how  much  less  wonder 
that  others  should  snatch  the  seed  and  seek  to  make  the 
acknowledged  flower   their    own?      Tennyson  must    be 
held  guiltless  of  all  that  his  followers  and  imitators  have 
done.    His  own  personal  aim  haa  been  pure  and  lofty ;  but, 
without  his  intention  or  will,  or  even  expectation,  he  lias 
Btiraulated.into  existence  a  school  of  what  might  be  called 
Decorative  Poetry.    I  take  the  adjective  from  its  present 
application  to  a  school  of  art.    I  have  heard  more  than 
one  distinguished  painter  in  England  say  of  painting,  "  It  is 
simply  a  decorative  art.    Hence  it  needs  only  a  sufficiency 
of  form  to  present  color :  the  expression  of  an  idea,  per- 
spective, chiar*  oscuro,  do  not  belong  to  it;  for  these  ad- 
dress themselves  to  the  mind,  whereas  art  addresses  itself 
only  to  the  eye,"    This  is  no  place  to  discuss   such  a 
materialistic  heresy;  I  mention  it  only  to  make  my  mean- 
ing clear.     Wo  may  equally  say  that  decorative  poetry 
addresses  itself  only  to  the  ear,  and  seeks  to  occupy  an 
intermediate  ground  between  poetry  and  music,    I  need 
not  give  instances.    They  are  becoming  bo  common  that 
the  healthy  natural  taste  of  mankind,  which  may  be  Bu^ 
prised  and  perverted  for  a  time,  is  beginning  to  grow 
fatigued,  and  the  flower — as  Tennyson  justly  complaina  in 
his  somewhat  petulant  poem — will  soon  be  a  weed  again. 

But  this  is  the  one  point  wherein  the  poet,  truly  ap- 
prehending his  art  and  rareily  devoting  all  his  powers  to  its 


12  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

service,  oventeps  its  legitimate  frontiers.    His  later  omis- 
sions  from  tlie  volume  of  1830  have  been  made  with  a  con 
rect  instinct,  and  I  have  revived  them  with  reluctance, 
because  they  were  necessary  illustrations,  in  endeavoring 
to  describe  his  poetic  development.    The  volume,  published 
in  the  winter  of  1832-3,  is  a  remarkable  advance  in  every 
respect.    "We  see  that  indifference  or  ridicule  has  been 
powerless  to  stay  the  warm,  opulent,  symmetrical  growth 
of  his  best  powers.    In  the  "  Lady  of  Shallot,"  "  (Enone,'* 
the  "  Lotus-Eaters,"  the  "  Palace  of  Art,"  and  the  "  Dream 
of  Fair  Women,"  we  reach  almost  the  level  of  his  later 
achievement.    In  some  of  these  the  conception  suffices  to 
fill  out  the  metrical  form;  the  exquisite  elaboration  of 
detail  is  almost  prescribed  by  the  subject ;  and  the  luxuries 
of  sound  and  movement,  while  not  diminished,  are  made 
obedient  to  an  intelligent  melodic  law.    Rarely  has  a  young 
man  of  twenty-two  written  such  poetry  or  justified  such 
largo  predictions  of  his  future.    Yet  he  was  still  almost 
unnoticed  and  unread.    "Wordsworth,  Southey,  Coleridge, 
Moore,  and  Lamb  were  then  alive,  yet  we  find  no  word 
of  the  new  bard  in  their  correspondence  of  those  days. 
Bulwer's  sneer,  in  his  "New  Timon,"  came  twelve  years 
later.      For  a  decade  thereafter    Tennyson    was   silent, 
though  not  discouraged :  we  know  very  little  of  his  life 
during  this  period,  yet  we  may  infer  somewhat  of  its  char- 
acter from  his  later  activity.    We  must  suppose  that  he 
calmly  waited,  not  doubtful  of  his  power  because  of  his 
very  consciousness  of  it,  biit  only  the  more  ardently  turned 


TENNYSOI^,  13 

to  its  complete  development  through  varied  study,  earnest 
thought,  and  free  imagination.  We  may  conjecture  that 
more  was  written  in  these  years  than  he  has  preserved ;  for 
when  we  reach  the  volume  of  184:2,  wo  find  every  former 
characteristic  of  his  verse  heightened  and  purified,  not 
changed.  Only  a  sportive  element,  which  does  not  quite 
reach  the  humorous,  is  introduced ;  it  is  another  chord  of 
the  same  strain,  Midway  between  it  and  his  poems  of  im- 
aginative sentiment  lie  his  idylls  of  English  country  life, 
wherein  we  seem  to  detect  some  remote  influence  of  Words- 
worth. With  the  exception  of  "  Dora  "  and  *<  The  Gard- 
ener's Daughter,"  they  are  hardly  to  be  called  poems. 
The  fault  of  over-attention  to  detail  makes  itself  most 
keenly  felt  when  the  subject  is  barely  realistic;  we  are 
more  willing  to  notice  the  texture  of  cloth-of-gold  than 
of  russet  frieze. 

Such  poems  as  «  Morte  d' Arthur,"  «  The  Talking  Oak," 
"Locksley  Hall,"  "Ulysses,"  and  "The  Two  Voices," 
wherein  thought,  passion,  and  imagination,  combined  in 
their  true  proportions,  breathe  through  full,  rich,  and 
haunting  forms  of  verse,  at  once  gave  Tennyson  his  place 
in  English  literature.  The  fastidious  care  with  which 
every  image  was  wrought,  every  bar  of  the  movement  ad- 
justed to  the  next  and  attuned  to  the  music  of  all,  every 
epithet  chosen  for  point,  freshness,  and  picturesque  effect, 
eveiy  idea  restrained  within  the  limits  of  close  and  clear 
expression,— these  virtues,  so  intimately  fused,  became  a 
sadden  delight  for  all  lovers  of  poetry,  and  for  a  time 


I    i  . 

U  MSSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

affected  their  appreciation  of  its  more  nnpretending  and 
artless  forms.  The  poet's  narrow  circle  of  admirers  wid- 
ened at  once,  taking  in  so  many  of  the  younger  generation 
that  the  old  doubters  were  one  by  one  compelled  to  yield. 
Pooy  pOHHCHHlng  much  of  the  t<amo  artUtlc  genius  in  pootryi 
was  the  first  American  author  to  welcome  Tennyson  j  and 
I  still  remember  the  eagerness  with  which,  as  a  boy  of  sev- 
enteen, after  read  nig  his  paper,  I  sought  for  the  volume, 
—and  1  remember  also  the  strange  HciiBe  of  mental  dazzle 
and  bewilderment  I  experienced  on  the  first  perusal  of  it. 
I  can  only  compare  it  to  the  first  sight  of  a  sunlit  land* 
scape  through  a  prism  J  every  object  has  a  rainbowed  out- 
lino.  One  is  fascinated  to  look  again  and  again,  though 
the  eyes  ache. 

,  The  four  succeeding  volumes— "The  Princess,"  "In 
Memoriam,"  "Maud,"  and  the  "  Idylls  of  the  King  "—ex- 
hibit more  variety,  perhaps,  but  no  higlier  reach  of  technical 
achievement.  There  is  a  limit  to  the  latter,  so  far  as  it  is 
the  ri'Kiilt  of  devoted  efTort;  and  ho  who  could  write 
"Mariana"  at  twenty-two  and  the  " Morte  d* Arthur "  at 
thirty-two  had  little  to  learn  through  that  channel.  All 
possible  loftier  effects  depend  upon  the  intensity  of  a  self- 
forgetting  imaghiative  or  intellectual  paHsion.  AVhoever 
will  read  the  speech  of  Arthur  to  the  Queen,  in  the  idyll 
"  Guinevere,"  will  find  the  fitting  example.  Tennyson's 
power  of  receiving  strong  and  multiform  impressions  can 
not  be  for  a  moment  doubted ;  but  one  M'ho  possesses  so 
consciously  the  rarest  qualities  of  his  art,  and  so  deliberately 


TENNYSON,  15 

devotes  his  life  to  the  perfection  thereof,  is  exposed  to  a 
danger  which  he  can  never  entirely  recognize,  and  tlms 
overcome.  Tlie  artistic  sense,  so  constantly  and  exquisitely 
refined,  acquires  an  insidious  mastery  over  tlie  free  idea,  and 
partly  conceals  it  under  the  very  perfection  of  illustration 
which  is  meant  to  present  it  in  its  full  proportions.  That 
higher  sense,  which  determines  the  relative  value  of  such 
illustrations,  becomes  dulled:  each  asserts  its  equal  right, 
and  receives  equal  attention,  so  it  carry  a  tempting  epithet 
with  it;  and  the  reader  is  constantly  hurried  back  and 
forth,  to  and  from  the  themo  of  the  poem,  by  metaphors 
and  descriptions  bo  bright,  keen,  and  tnie,  that  each  must 
be  separately  enjoyed.  "We  do  not  walk  as  in  a  path,  to- 
wards some  shining  peak  in  the  distance :  but  as  over  a 
lush  meadow,  where  new,  enchanting  blossoms,  to  the 
nght  and  left,  entice  our  steps  hither  and  thither.  A 
poetical  conception  requires  perspective,  balance  of  tints, 
concentration  of  the  highest  light,  no  less  than  a  picture ; 
where,  from  beginning  to  end,  every  detail  is  presented 
with  equal  prominence  and  elaborated  with  equal  skill, 
there  is  no  resting-place  for  the  mind,  as,  in  a  similar 
picture,  there  is  none  for  the  eye.  I  do  not  mean  that  this 
is  a  pervading  fault  of  Tennyson:  his  instinct  is  too  true 
to  allow  it  to  vitiate  his  most  earnest  work ;  but  his  methods 
of  labor  do  not  allow  him  wholly  to  escape  it.  There  are 
few  forms  of  knowledge  which  he  has  neglected,  and  few 
which  he  ha«  not  used  in  the  service  of  poetry.  He  rarely 
mistakes  through  deficient  perceptiou,  but  Teiy  frequently 


16  ESSAYS  AUD  NOTES. 

through  correct  perception)  asserting  itself  without  regard 
to  its  proper  place  and  value.  All  objects  present  them- 
selves to  him  with  such  distinctness  of  illustration  that  he 
forgets  the  unfamiliarity  of  the  reader  with  their  qualities. 
When  he  writes  of  a  "  clear  germander  eye,"  how  many  are 
there  who  know  or  remember  that  a  germander  is  a  wild 
plant  with  a  blue  flower  ?  He  speaks  of  hair  "  more  black 
than  ash-buds  in  the  front  of  March  " — and  we  are  obliged 
to  pause  and  consider  whether  ash-buds  are  black.  Only  a 
few  will  recall  the  fact  that  they  are  an  intense,  glossy 
brown.    In  "  The  Princess  '*  we  find : 

**  Walter  warped  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn  that  I  laugh'd, 
And  Lilia  woke  with  suddm-ghriUing  mirth 
An  echo  like  a  ghostly  tcoodpecher^ 
Hid  in  the  ruins. ♦* 

I  italicize  expressions  which  are  simply  unusual- 
original  by  force  of  will—not  happy,  nor  agreeable.  It  is 
quite  impossible  to  imagine  laughter  the  echo  of  which 
sounds  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker  I  In  "  Audley  Court  '* 
we  come  upon  this  passage  j 

"  A  damask  napkin,  vrought  ititK  Wm  and  hound**^ 
»    »    I     *'  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of  home, 
And,  half  cut-down,  a  pasty  costly  made, 
"Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret  lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied  ;  last,  with  these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father^s  vats, 
Prime^  which  I  hiew»^* 


TENNYSON.  17 

Here  we  must  have  even  the  pattern  of  the  napkin,  the 
ingredients  of  the  pasty,  and  the  narrator's  indorsement  of 
the  cider  I  To  bo  sure,  "  Audley  Court "  is  a  sportive  ex- 
ercise of  the  author's  mind,  not  a  poem ;  but  this  tendency 
to  emphasize  each  particular  by  a  clever  word  or  phrase 
exhibits  itself  in  many  of  his  earnest  and  even  noble  poems. 
The  exquisite  little  poem  of  <*Tho  Brook"  is  set  in  a 
curious  framework  of  lovers'  quarrels,  selling  horses,  and 
emigration  to  Australia,  and  we  are  furnished  with  some 
unnecessary  geographical  facts : 

•*Katiowalki 
By  the  long  wash  of  Auitrala»ian  teas^ 
Far  of!,  and  holds  her  head  to  other  starSi 
And  breathes  in  converse  seasons,'* 

Mr.  Fields  informs  us  that  the  italicized  line  is  a  special 
favorite  with  the  author,  on  account  of  its  sustained  rhyth- 
mical quality.  It  is  certainly  a  fine  line,  but  not  equal  to 
the  following,  in  Bryant's  poem  of  "  The  Sea : " 

*'The  long  wave  rolling  from  the  Southern  Pole 
To  break  upon  Japan," 

In  the  prologue  to  "  The  Princess,"  the  lunch  in  the 
ruins  is  "silver-set" — a  fact  nobody  cares  at  all  to  know— 
and  Lilia  taps  with  a  "silken-sandalled"  foot.  But  the 
last  canto  of  this  poem  furnishes  the  most  striking,  because 
most  beautiful,  illustration  of  a  description  out  of  place. 
The  wounded  Prince,  tended  by  the  haughty  Ida,  describe* 
that  scene  of  the  late  night  melting  into  dawn,  when  the 


18  £SSA  rs  AND  NOTES. 

barrier  between  the  hearts  of  the  two  was  suddenly  struck 

down: 

.     "imd  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other  when  she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with  love  ; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt;  and  she 
Far-Jleettd  by  the  purple  island-ndeSf 
Nakedf  a  douhle  light  in  air  and  xeate^ 
To  meet  her  Graees^  where  they  decked  her  out 
For  worship  without  end  :  nor  end  ofmine^ 
JStateliesty  for  thee  !  but  mute  she  glided  forth, 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank  and  slept, 
Filled  thro*  and  thro'  with  love,  a  happy  sleep.** 

The  italicized  passage  contains  an  exquisite,  rapid  picture 
of  Aphrodite,  floating  along  the  wave  to  her  home  at 
Paphos;  but  what  must  we  think  of  the  lover  who,  in 
relating  the  supreme  moment  of  his  passion,  could  turn 
aside  to  interpolate  it  ?  Its  very  loveliness  emphasizes  his 
litter  f orgotf ulness  of  the  governing  theme ;  and,  whether 
the  situation  be  called  dramatic  or  not,  it  is  amenable  to 
the  strictest  laws  of  dramatic  art.  So,  in  the  wonderfully 
musical  idyll  which  Ida  soon  afterward  reads,  the  maid  is 
represented  as  living  aloft  among  the  glaciers,  and  the  man 
as  a  dweller  of  the  valley, — the  reverse  of  the  usual  fact ; 
and  this  passage : 

*'the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors," 


TENNYSON, 


19 


is  almost  incomprehensible  to  one  who  has  not  looked  with 
liis  own  bodily  eyes  upon  the  Mer  de  Glace,  The  poem, 
in  fact,  abounds  with  instances  where  the  expression,  as  a 
whole,  is  weakened  and  confused  by  the  author's  tendency 
to  make  each  particular  complete,  without  reference  to  its 
relation  to  others.  I  give  a  few  out  of  many  instances 
which  might  be  quoted,  italicizing  the  words  which 
specially  mark  the  incongruity  resulting  from  this  ten- 
dency; 

**  he  chewed 
The  thrice-turned  cud  of  wrath,  and  cooled  his  spleen." 

**  who  first  had  dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Dityoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and  auert 
None  lordlier  than  themselves." 

*'  and  betwixt  them  Uossomed  up^ 
From  out  a  common  tein  of  memory,  •  • 

Sweet  household  talkJ*^ 

**  he  that  doth  not,  lives 
A  drowning  life,  hesott^  in  sweet  self, 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than  death, 
Or  keeps  his  winged  affections  dipt  with  crime.** 

**  and  loved  thee  seen,  and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro*  the  cnist  of  iron  moods 
That  masked  thee  from  men^s  reverence  up^  and  forced 
Bweet  love  on  pranks  ofsatiey  hoyliood,'^^ 

**  Whenever  she  moves 
A  Bamian  Seri  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon  smitten  by  the  moniing  sun.** 


20  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

"We  miglit  also  ask,  what  is  "a  showery  glance*'?  and 
wliat  IB  "the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tasflel'd  trees"?  When 
he  writes,  "And  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves 
in  heaven,"  in  describing  a  tropical  night,  we  can  not 
feel  quite  certain  of  the  truth  of  his  description.  In  "  The 
Voyage,"  nevertheless,  we  find  an  image  stolen  directly 
from  Nature,  as  unexpected  as  it  is  exquisite, — ^yet  hardly 
one  reader  in  a  thousand  will  understand  it : 

**  Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean^s  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  aiher  host 
Of  her  own  hald't  dwiky  $hield,** 

I  have  often  seen,  on  the  Caribbean  Sea,  a  luminous 
prismatic  halo  around  the  moon,  between  which  and  the 
clear  white  light  of  her  disk,  the  space  became  dusky 
almost  to  blackness.  In  contrast  with  this  perfect  figure 
Is  the  term  "houseless,"  as  applied  to  the  ocean.  It  is 
true,  but  unnecessarily  so ;  it  is  new,  but  awakes  no  pleas, 
ant  surprise.  One  might  as  well  say,  "the  treeless  Al- 
pine summit,"  or  "the  mountainless  marsh."  The  fre- 
quent recurrence  of  epithets  which  do  not  bear  the  stamp 
of  a  keen,  bright,  spontaneous  presentation  to  the  author's 
mind,  but  have  been  deliberately  studiedy — and  hence 
suggest  more  or  less  of  transient  mood  or  design, — inter- 
feres with  our  maturer  enjoyment  of  much  of  Tennyson's 
poetry. 

Although  his  genius  is  essentially  lyrical — for  even 


TENNYSON,  21 

the  pdcms  which  have  an  epic  character  are  full  of  subtle 
refrains  and  melodic  effects — the  same  over-retinment  of 
the  artistic  sense  affects  his  lyric  verse,  Most  of  his  brief 
lays,  and  also  "Locksley  Hall,"  are  comparatively  free 
from  it:  in  the  "Talking  Oak"  and  the  "Dream  of  Fair 
"Women"  it  is  in  a  measure  prescribed  by  his  manner  of 
treatment,  and  in  his  quaint,  half-sportive  ballads  it  is  not  out 
of  place.  In  the  "  Talace  of  Art,"  however,  the  conception 
almost  disappears  under  the  elaboration  of  detail;  the 
earlier  idylls  of  country  life  are  almost  all  tinctured  with 
it,  and  "  Maud,"  which  is  a  chaplet  of  lyric  pearls  (Eoman 
and  real  mixed),  is  vitiated  with  it  throughout.  The  lyric  is 
a  completely-unfolded  blossom  of  the  poet's  mind ;  it  may 
bo  only  a  violet  or  a  speedwell ;  it  may  be  a  golden  lily  or 
a  rose-veined  lotus ;  but  it  must  keep  its  native  color  and 
odor.  If  powdered  even  with  the  dust  of  diamonds,  or 
touched  even  with  oil  of  ineffable  fragrance,  something 
of  its  purer  and  finer  beauty  thenceforth  vanishes. 

It  may  seem  surprising,  at  first,  that  a  quality  which 
Bprang  from  the  truest  native  instinct  should  gradually 
mislead  or  partially  benumb  that  instinct.  Tennyson's 
life  has  been  governed  by  his  fervent  devotion  to  poetry : 
no  knight  of  the  chivalric  ages  was  ever  so  constant  to  his 
mistress.  But  he  has  been,  to  some  extent,  a  poetic  an- 
chorite. His  vigils  have  been  too  long  and  lonely,  his 
intellectual  activity  too  closely  restricted  to  a  single  form 
of  expression.  What  poet  of  equal  renown,  in  all  history, 
has  been  so  solely  a  poet  as  he)    He  has  acquainted  him- 


23  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

self  with  all  forms  of  knowledge — Thackeray  once  said  to 
me,  " Tennyson  is  the  wisest  man  I  know" — and  all  for 
the  sake  of  poetry;  yet,  even  as  the  anchorite  confonnds 
his  natural  aspiration  with  the  spiritual  effort  bom  of  his 
solitary  brooding,  so  may  the  poet  alloy  his  creative  faculty 
by  shutting  himself  up  alone  with  it.  He  may  have 
written  prose,  but  I  do  not  know  where  fifty  lines  of  it  are 
to  be  found.  Consequently  his  ideas  and  speculations  on 
other  subjects,  which  must  crowd  his  mind  uncomforta- 
bly at  times,  force  their  entrance  into  his  verse ;  and,  in 
spite  of  liis  artistic  sense,  not  always  with  that  poetic  neces- 
sity which  the  reader  instantly  recognizes.  In  "In 
Mcinoriam,"  ho  has  justified  himself  with  wonderful 
ability;  with  the  exception  of  the  single  idyll  of  "Guin- 
evere "  and  tlie  brief  poem  of  "  Tithonus,'*  he  has  written 
nothing  purer  and  more  evenly  sustained  at  a  lofty 
height. 

I  assume  that  Tennyson's  studies  in  literature  have 
been  very  thorough  and  general,  for  I  have  been  surprised 
by  suggestions  of  his  lines  in  the  most  unexpected  places. 
Every  author  is  familiar  with  the  insidious  way  in  which 
old  phrases  or  images,  which  have  preserved  themselves 
in  the  mind  but  forgotten  their  origin,  will  quietly  slip 
into  places  when  the  like  of  them  is  needed*  Almost 
every  thing  in  Gray,  for  example,  breathes  of  earlier 
sources,  yet  it  were  both  flippant  and  absurd  to  assert 
that  he  deliberatly  selected  his  poetical  imagery  from  his 
scholastic  stores.      Goethe  held  that  whatever  an  author 


TENNYSON,  23 

can  use  with  a  new  significance,  or  invest  with  some  addi^ 
tional  charm,  he  has  a  right  to  take  freely;  and  this 
right  has  long  been  exercised  in  the  kindred  arts.  Mr. 
Stedman  was  the  first  to  show  how  freely,  yet  with 
what  other  application,  Tennyson  has  drawn  from  The- 
ocritus, and  his  paper  thereon,  in  the  "  Victorian  Poets," 
is  an  admirable  specimen  of  clear  critical  insight  and 
fairness.  In  the  course  of  my  reading,  I  have  frequently 
come  upon  passages  which  seem  to  have  been  the  sug-  * 
gestions — sometimes,  possibly,  only  the  seeds  of  seeds — 
of  fuller,  more  elaborately  wrought  poetic  designs  in 
Tennyson's  works.  The  latter  are  neither  transfers  nor 
imitations,  but  rather  blossoms  which  have  expanded  from 
remembered  buds.  In  Pope's  "  Dunciad  "  (Book  IV.)  there 
are  the  lines: 

"With  that  a  wizard  old  his  cup  extends, 
Which  who»o  taste*  fiyrgeU  hU  former  friendly 
Sire,  ancestors,  himself." 

We  are  directly  reminded  of  "  that  enchanted  stem,"  in 
the  "  Lotos-Eaters,"  which 

"whoso  did  receive  of  them 
And  taste," 

sat  down  and  ceased  to  care  for  the  ties  of  his  former  life. 
The  idyll  called  "  The  Last  Tournament "  contains  a  strange, 
quaint  catch,  which  Tristram  sings,  beginning,  "  Ay,  ay,  O 
ay,— the  winds  that  bend  the  brier  I " — which,  like  a  Ger- 
man LHoh  of  the  Middle  Ages,  seems  to  have  been  written 


24  ESSAYS  A/^D  NOrES. 

under  the  compolBion  of  certain  muaical  notes.  But 
there  is  a  sonnet  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  ending  with  the 
line,  "I,  I,  O,  I,  may  say  that  she  is  mine,*' — which  one 
can  not  help  thinking  may  have  suggested  Tennyson's 
pre-refrain  of  exactly  similar  sounds. 

In  Shelley's  "  Triumph  of  Life,"  one  of  his  last  poems, 
will  be  found  the  complete  outline  of  Tennyson's  "  Vision 
of  Sin."  The  passage  is  too  long  to  quote,  but  whoever 
will  turn  to  the  former  poem  and  read  the  stanzas  from  the 
forty-sixth  to  the  fifty-ninth,  inclusive,  will  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  recognizing  the  resemblance.  Tennyson's  "  Brook  '* 
has  a  freshness  and  liquid  babble  of  selected  words  which 
charmed  every  body  when  it  appeared : 

"I  chatter  over  stony  ways 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles  ( 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

••  With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret, 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
"With  willow-weed  and  mallow." 

But  surely  the  music  of  this,  and  the  germ  of  the  lyric, 
were  anticipated  by  Bums  in  the  following  stanza  of  hifl 
"Hallowe'en;" 

"  Whyles  oure  a  linn  the  burnie  plays, 
As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl't  ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  strays  \ 
Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't ; 


TENNYSON,  25 

Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
"Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes. 

Below  the  spreading  hazel." 

In  the  delightful  volume  on  Corsica  by  Ferdinand 
Gregorovius,  there  is  a  cradle-song  of  the  Corsican  mothers, 
the  ^t  stanza  of  which  runs  thus,  in  a  translation  as  literal 
as  possible : 

A  little  pearl-laden  ship,  my  darling, 

Thou  carriest  silver  stores, 
And  with  thy  silken  sails  all  set, 

Com^st  from  the  Indian  shores  ; 
And  wrought  with  the  finest  workmanship 

Are  all  thy  golden  oars. 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  a  little  while, 

J^nni  nanna^  sleep  I 

Who  does  not  think,  at  once,  of  the  cradle-6ong  in 
"The  Princess"?— 

«♦  Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west, 

Under  the  silver  moon  : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep  t  ** 

Friedrich  von  Logan,  the  Silesian  poet  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  has  this  couplet,  among  his  poetical 
"  Aphorisms ; " 

Roses  are  jewels  of  Spring,  and  Spring  is  the  rose  of  the  year  j 
Ihrincess-rose  of  the  roses  art  thou,  and  justly,  my  dear  S 


S6  e)sSj^YS  AND  I^OTES. 

Tennyson  may  never  have  seen  tWB  couplet :  bnt  it  di- 
rectly suggests  the  iteration  of  his  reference  to  the  roses  in 
"  Mand,''  culminating  in  the  line,  "  Queen-rose  of  the  rose- 
bud garden  of  girls."  Even  if  these  instances  are  referable 
to  some  distinct  reminiscence,  they  only  illustrate  the 
breadth,  and  earnestness  of  the  author's  literary  studies. 
I  mention  them  with  an  intention  the  farthest  possible 
from  disparagement :  a  genius  so  exceptional  in  its  history 
invites  all  forms  of  analysis.  A  poet  who  thus  incases  him- 
self in  the  triple  brass  of  his  art,  unwittingly  challenges  the 
world  to  test  its  temper. 

Another  interesting  illustration  of  Tennyson's  over- 
anxiety  in  regard  to  detail  is  famished  by  those  passages 
which  he  has  changed  in  later  editions  of  his  works.  In 
very  few  instances  has  he  improved  by  retouching,  while  In 
others  the  damage  inflicted  was  so  evident  as  to  provoke  a 
general  protest.  Few  of  his  lyrical  fragments  have  so 
haunted  the  memories  of  his  readers  as  this,  from  "  The 

Princess : " 
1 

I  •*  Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  drums, 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  t 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 
He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  { 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee.*' 

Nothing  could  be  more  compact,  resonant,  and  vivid. 


TENNYSON,  27 

Why  the  author  should  have  been  dissatisfied  with  it  is  an 
inscrutable  mystery ;  equally  so  why  he  should  have  pre- 
ferred the  following  as  a  substitute  ; 

**Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums 
Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands  : 
Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 
And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

**  Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 

Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  theo.** 

How  limp  and  languid  are  these  lines,  by  contrast  I  Tenny- 
son has  since  been  prevailed  upon  to  restore  the  first  song 
to  its  place  in  the  Medley ;  but  a  perverse  affection  leads 
him  still  to  print  the  latter  among  his  poems.  In  the  early 
editions,  the  lines— 

"  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Keels,  as  the  golden  autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning /<nf<T«"— 

suggested  a  more  delicate  fancy  than  the  poet  seems  to  have 
intended.  They  gave  us  a  vision  of  the  autumnal  haze, 
slowly  gathering  from  myriads  of  flowers  as  they  bum 
away  in  the  last  ardors  of  summer.  But  now  the  last  line 
reads,  "  Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds^^  which  only 
paints  for  us  an  ordinary  piece  of  farm-work.  Besides,  the 
repetition  of  ee  in  "  reels  "  and  "  weeds "  utterly  destrcya 
the  original  melody,  which  requires  the  open,  expansive 
sound  of  flowers."    In  "  Maud,"  on  the  other  hand.  Ten- 


28  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

byson  has  recognized  the  weakness  of  the  former  melo- 
dramatic close— "the  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a  heart 
of  fire,"^-and  the  need  of  some-  hint  of  sounder  change  in 
the  nature  of  the  morbid  hero.  The  six  lines  which  he 
has  added  are  not  particularly  impressive,  but  they  furnish 
a  partial  remedy  for  both  faults. 

In  the  "  Idylls  of  the  King  "  we  have  an  example  of  a 
lofty  poetic  theme  weakened  in  exact  pix)portion  as  it  is 
carried  beyond  the  limits  of  the  first  conception.  "Whether 
there  was  an  original  epic  which,  as  we  are  told  in  the  pro- 
logue to  the  "  Morte  d' Arthur,"  was  thrown  into  the  fire, 
is  a  matter  of  conjecture ;  but  the  first  volume  containing 
"Enid,*'  "Vivien,"  "Elaine"  and  "Guinevere,"  shows 
Buch  a  fine  selection  of  episodes  from  the  Arthurian  legends, 
and  so  much  design  to  make  each  artistically  complete  in 
itself,  that  the  continuation  of  the  series  must  at  least  have 
been  an  unsettled  or  a  postponed  question.  The  three  which 
were  next  added  (not  counting  "  The  Passing  of  Arthur  "), 
after  some  years,  have  less  of  freshness  and  resonance  and 
fluency.  There  is  more  for  us  in  the  early  ballad  of  "  Sir 
Galahad"  than  in  the  later  ballad  of  "The  Holy  Grail;" 
for  this,  like  a  modern  Madomia  compared  with  those  of 
Fra  Angelico  or  Eaphael,  gives  us  technical  imitation  in- 
stead of  unthinking  faith.  "We  remember  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach,  and  the  wonderfully  j;ny8tic  atmosphere  of 
his  "  Parzival,"  and  feel  how  far  the  real  inspiration  of  the 
legend  lies  behind  any  poet  of  our  day.  Tennyson's  verse, 
also,  moves  more  cautiously  in  these  added  idylls :  the  lines 


TENNYSON.  29 

no  longer  beat,  sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels, 
as  in  the  "  Morte  d' Arthur ; "  his  Muse  takes  heed  to  her 
feet,  picks  her  way,  is  conscious  of  her  graceful  steps  and 
repeats  them,  "  The  Last  Tournament,"  which  next  fol- 
lowed, does  rough  violence  to  the  Armoric  legend  of  Tris- 
tram and  Iseult.  By  omitting  the  magic  potion — the  rela- 
tion whereof  forms  such  an  exquisite  episode  in  Gottfried 
von  Strassburg's  epic — the  hero  and  heroine  become  vulgar 
sinners,  and  the  true  tragic  element  of  the  story  is  lost. 
Tennyson's  purpose  was  evidently  to  create  a  darker  foil 
for  the  sin  of  Lancelot  and  Guinevere ;  and  the  closing  pas- 
sago,  where  Arthur  comes  homo  to  find  the  Queen's  bower 
dark  and  deserted,  is  a  stroke  of  genius :  but  we  can  not 
easily  forgive  the  degradation  of  a  theme  so  nobly  and  pa* 
thetically  treated  by  the  mediceval  minstrels.  The  last  writ- 
ten idyll, "  Gareth  and  Lynette,"  is  the  most  elaborately- 
wrought  of  all.  It  is  drawn  like  a  series  of  vignettes  in  in- 
terlacing arabesque  patterns, 

**  All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device,*' — 

constantly  reminding  us  not  only  of  the  detached  clever- 
nesses with  which  it  abounds,  but  also  of  the  effort  to 
make  them  eleven  Here,  as  in  many  other  places,  we 
might  almost  apply  his  own  reference  to  the  Eiddling  of  the 
Bards: 

«  Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation, 
Elusion  and  occasion,  and  evasion." 


80  BsiiYS  AlfD  l^OTES. 

!     ;      . 
ThtiB,  for  a  single  example,  lie  compares  a  shield  to  a 
dandelion: 

<*ABif  theflowefi 
That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets, 
Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flashed  the  fierce  ihield, 
All  8un.»» 

So,  when  he  says  in  the  song,  "O,  rainbow  with  three 
colors  after  rain,"  he  speaks  from  modem  scientific  knowl- 
edge of  the  primary  colors.  To  the  ignorant  eye,  the  rain* 
bow  can  not  possibly  have  less  than  four  colors,  and  per- 
haps oftenest  five.  The  verse  in  these  two  last  idylls  be- 
comes still  more  labored.  The  pmposed  discords  are  gen- 
erally unskilful ;  the  lines  are  welded  by  hammering,  not 
poured  molten  from  the  perfect  fusion  of  their  elements. 
The  similes  show,  in  their  very  character,  how  strenuonflly 
they  have  been  sought,  and  some  of  them,  as, 

"In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 
Hath  left  crag-carven  o^er  the  streaming  Qelt**-^ 

are  undecipherable  to  most  readers. 

Nothing,  however,  more  strikingly  proves  the  genu- 
ineness of  the  ai*tistic  sense  underlying  all  these  faults 
which  spring  from  intellectual  seclusion  and  constant, 
near-sighted  application  to  the  art,  than  the  periods  of 
fresh  recuperative  energy  which  occur  in  Tennyson's 
poetry.  After  "  The  Princess  "  came  "  In  Memoriam ; " 
after  "  Maud,"  the  first  four  Idylls  of  the  King ;  after  the 
last  of  these  and  "Enoch  Arden"  (his  poorest  narrative 


T£NNYSOI^,  31 

poem),  the  dramas  of  "  Queen  Mary  "  and  "  Harold."  His 
most  genuine  triumphs  are  due  to  this  quality  of  untiring 
endeavor.  His  great  popularity  may  have  occasionally  se^ 
duced  him  to  repeat  some  strains  merely  because  they  were 
•welcome  to  the  general  ear,  but  his  aim  has  never  been 
deflected  from  the  mark  of  high  achievement.  We  constant" 
ly  feel,  it  is  true,  that  he  puts  forth  his  utmost  fire,  force, 
and  knowledge :  behind  his  poems  there  is  no  such  back- 
ground of  suggested  capacities,  broader  powers,  possibili- 
ties of  imagination,  as  wo  fool  when  reading  Sliakcspoaro, 
Milton,  Goethe,  and  oven  somotimos  Keats  and  Shelley. 
When  ho  roaches  a  high  level,  he  does  not  hang  on  move- 
less wings,  liko  a  Theban  eagle,  but  keeps  his  place  by  a 
rapid  succession  of  strokes.  Yet,  whatever  he  may  lack 
of  that  "  supreme  dominion "  which  belongs  only  to  the 
masters  of  song,  his  life  has  been  an  effort  to  conquer  and 
possess  it. 

Tennyson's  two  recent  dramatic  poems  have  been  a 
surprise  to  all  who  have  simply  enjoyed  his  previous 
works  without  perceiving  the  nature  of  his  dominant  intel- 
lectual passion.  In  the  elaboration  of  poetic  detail  he  had 
already  reached  the  limit  of  his  powers, — nay,  whether  con- 
Bcious  of  the  fact  or  not,  he  had  passed  the  limit  drawn 
by  the  higher  law  of  proportion.  He  was  compelled  to 
turn  to  an  untried  form ;  and,  having  made  the  selection,  a 
true  instinct  next  compelled  him  to  acquire  an  untried 
manner.  He  comes  back  to  the  simple  language  through 
which  human  character  must  express  itself  in  the  drama, 


82  ESSAYS  AND  //OTE& 

resists  (we  can  not  doubt)  the  continual  temptatiouB  of 
metaphor  and  all  other  graces  of  his  lyric  genius,  studies 
sharper  contrasts  and  broader  effects,  and  so  narrowly  . 
misses  a  crowning  success  that  his  failure  becomes  a  rela* 
tive  triumph.    The  dramatic  faults  of  "  Queen  Mary  "  have 
been  generally  recognized  t  they  are  partly  inherent  in  the 
subject,  into  which  no  single,  coherent,  tragic  element  can 
be  forced,  and  partly  in  overweighting  each  one  of  the 
many  characters  with  his  or  her  own  separate  interest. 
"  Harold  '*  is  constructed  with  more  skill,  and  we  do  not 
readily  see  why  it  should  not  be  regarded  as  a  great  dra- 
matic poem,    It  is  full  of  strong  and  vivid  passages ;  the 
characters  are  carefully  studied,  the  blank  verse  is  admi- 
rable, and  the  gleams  of  pure  poetry  which  brighten  it  are 
sobered  to  the  true  tone.    In  execution  it  is  almost  wholly 
free  from  the  faults  which  I  have  indicated.    The  heroic 
pitch  is  maintained  throughout,  based  upon  that  heroism 
in  the  author's  nature  which  impels  him  to  conquer  the 
world's  doubt.    Its  only  defect  is  that  of  oompositionj  in 
the  sense  used  by  painters — in  the  grouping  of  characters 
and  the  disposition  of  scenes,  which  should  gain  in  action 
and  intensity  as  they  approach  the   overhanging  doom* 
Thus,  the  closing  description  of  the  Battle  of  Hastings,  a 
masterly  piece  of  Work,  would  quite  destroy  the  effect  of 
the  tragedy  if  it  were  represented  upon  the  stage.    It  is 
written  for  the  brain  and  the  ear,  not  for  the  eye. 

A  theatrical  success,  however, — though  greatly  desira- 
ble for  such  works  in  these  days  of  diluted  comedy  and 


TENNYSON,  33 

opera  hoxiffe^ — would  add  little  to  TcnnyBon's  fame.     It 
would  only  prove  his  capacity  to  acquire  and  apply  the 
secrets  of  technical  effect.     Meanwhile  the  two  dramas 
remain,  noble  examples  of  a  lofty  ambition  and  a  de- 
votion to  poetic  art  which  knows  not  fatigue  or  discour* 
agement.    Without  them,  fellow-poets  might  have  under- 
stood, but  the  world  could  never  have  appreciated,  how 
much  may  be  attained  by  trained  and  conscious  genius. 
There  is  a  tendency,  just  now,  in  literary  criticism,  to  glorify 
the  seeming  unconsciouness  of  earlier  poets — as  if  the  latter 
never  knew  their  fortunate  hours  and  the  quality  of  their 
best  achievement  1    There  can  bo  no  over-consciousness  of 
genius,  nor  of  the  artistic  sense, — though  their  may  bo  in 
the  urn  of  tho  latter.    Tennyson  illustrates  both :  his  fail- 
ures have  their  source  in  the  one,  his  triumphs  in  the 
other.    Was  it  his  consciousness,  or  a  power  subtle  and 
inevitable*  as  destiny,  which  led  him  to  turn  from  the  many- 
colored,  tapestried  halls  of  "  The  Princess "  to  the  cool, 
serene,  marble-pillared  atrium  of   "  In  Memoriam  "  ?    Let 
the  critic  adjust  the  answer  according  to  his  theory  I 

I  had  not  intended  to  write  of  the  moral  and  intellect- 
ual tendencies  of  Tennyson's  mind,  as  expressed  in  his 
poetry ;  but  a  reference  to  them,  at  least,  seems  appropriate, 
even  in  a  discussion  of  his  literary  individuality.  He 
seems  to  belong  to  a  class  which  has  existed  for  a  genera- 
tion and  is  gradually  increasing  in  number — a  class  describ- 
ed by  Mr.  Lowell,  in  his  poem  of  "  Fitz  Adam,"  as  (I  give 
the  sense,  not  the  words)  Bemocratio  in  theory,  and  Tory 


84  JSSSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 

through  the  tafites  and  the  senses.  He  combines  hope 
and  prophecy  for  all  mankind  with  reverence  for  estab- 
lished institutions.  He  talks  of  the  larger  future,  the  more 
perfect  race,  of  the  time  when  the  battle-flags  shall  be 
furled  in  the  Parliament  of  Man,  yet  calls  John  Bright 

•*  This  broad-brimmed  hawker  of  holy  things, 
Whose  ear  is  stufTd  with  his  cotton,  and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his  pence, 
This  huckster  put  down  war  ?  *♦ 

In  a  word,  his  dream  of  progress  is  a  vague  and 
shining  mist,  his  view  of  the  Present  narrow  and  partisan. 
His  political  lyrics,  for  this  reason,  are  already  forgotten : 
they  were  inspired  by  the  fierce  prejudices  of  the  mo- 
ment, not  by  that  large,  full-hearted  enthusiasm  for  the 
Right,  for  Freedom  and  Humanity,  which  gives  immor- 
tality to  K6mer  and  Whittier.  In  ethical  and  theological 
speculation,  also,  Tennyson  gives  expression— but  cautiously 
—to  many  ideas  which  haunt  his  time.  The  most  of  these 
are  contained  in  "  In  Memoriam,'*  where  they  are  some- 
times definite,  sometimes  obscure ;  for  I  have  heard  very 
different  interpretations  applied  by  laymen  in  poetry  to 
the  same  lines.  The  reference  to  the  embryonic  theory 
in  the  last  poem,  for  instance,  escapes  most  readers.  But 
he  lias  not  ventured  beyond  the  common  level  of  specula- 
tion, nor  fore-epoken  the  deeper  problems  which  shall  en- 
gage the  generation  to  come.  Setting  his  face  towards 
the  Past,  in  the  themes  wherein  he  seems  most  to  delight, 


"i 


TENNYSON,  35 

he  studies  the  Future  as  it  is  reflected,  in  occasional  gleams, 
from  the  mirror  of  Arthur's  shield. 

Hundreds  of  Tennyson's  lines  and  phrases  have  be(iome 
fixed  in  the  popular  memory ;  and  there  is  scarcely  one  that 
is  not  suggestive  of  beauty,  or  consoling,  or  heartening. 
His  humanity  is  not  a  passion,  but  it  uses  occasion  to  ex- 
press itself ;  his  exclusive  habits  and  tastes  are  only  to  bo 
implied  from  his  works.  Ho  delights  to  sing  of  Honor, 
and  Chastity,  and  Fidelity,  and  his  most  voluptuous  meas- 
ures celebrate  no  greater  indulgences  than  indolence  and 
the  sensuous  delight  of  life.  With  an  influence  in  litera- 
ture unsurpassed  since  that  of  Byron,  he  may  have  incited 
a  morbid  craving  for  opulent  speech  in  less  gifted  writers, 
but  ho  has  never  disseminated  morbid  views  of  life.  His 
conscious  teaching  has  always  been  wholesome  and  eleva- 
ting. In  'spite  of  the  excessive  art,  which  I  have  treated 
as  his  prominent  fault  as  a  poet, — nay,  partly  in  conse- 
quence of  it, — ho  has  given  more  and  keener  delight  to 
the  reading  world  than  any  other  author  during  his  life- 
time. This  is  an  honorable,  enduring,  and  far-shining 
record.  I  know  not  where  to  turn  for  an  equal  illustration 
of  the  prizes  to  be  won  and  the  dangers  to  be  encountered, 
through  the  consecration  of  a  life  to  the  sole  service  of 
poetry. 

Tennyson  has  thoroughly  experienced  the  two  extreme 
phases  of  the  world's  regard.  For  twelve  years  after  his 
first  appearance  as  a  poet,  he  was  quietly  overlooked  by 
the  public,  and  was  treated  to  more  derision  than  criticism 


86  ^^SA  yS  AtfD  NO  TES. 

by  the  literary  journals.  When  his  popularity  once  struck 
root,  it  grew  rapidly,  and  in  a  few  years  became  an  over- 
shadowing fashion.  Since  the  publication  of  his  first 
Idylls  of  the  King,  it  has  been  almost  considered  as  a 
heresy,  in  England,  to  question  the  perfection  of  his 
poetry ;  even  the  sin  of  his  art  came  to  be  regarded  as 
itfl  special  virtue.  The  cstimato  of  his  performance  rose 
into  that  extravagance  which  sooner  or  later  provokes  a 
reaction  againut  itself.  There  are,  at  present,  signs  of  tho 
beginning  of  such  a  reaction  and  we  need  not  bo  surprised 
if  (as  in  Byron's  case)  it  should  swing  past  the  lino  of 
justice,  and  end  by  undervaluing,  for  a  time,  many  of  the 
poet's  high  and  genuine  qualities.  This  is  the  usual  law  of 
a  litui'tiry  fame  whioh  hnn  known  such  viclMsltudcrt.  Its 
vibrations,  though  lessened,  continue  until  Time,  the  sure 
con*ector  of  all  aberrations  of  human  judgment,  determines 
its  moveless  place.  And  Tennyson's  place  in  the  litera- 
ture of  tho  Englinh  language,  whatever  may  be  its  relation 
to  that  of  the  acknowledged  masters  of  Bong,  is  suro  to  bo 
high  and  permanent. 
May,  1877. 


VICTOR   HUGO. 

YICTOE  HUGO'S  new  poem,  La  Legende  dcs  Si- 
ecles — "The  Legend  of  the  Ages," — is  published 
in  two  octavo  volumes,  containing,  in  all,  seven  hun- 
dred and  fourteen  pages,  or  about  ten  thousand  lines 
of  verse.  Coming  from  an  author  who  has  already 
passed  his  seventy-fifth  birthday,  and  who  announces, 
on  the  back  of  these  volumes,  three  more  new  works — 
**A  Poen\:  The  Art  of  being  Grandfather,"  to  bo  pub- 
lished in  May,  1877;  "The  History  of  the  Crime  of  the 
Second  of  December,"  to  be  published  in  October,  1877; 
and  "Poetry:  The  Complete  Lyre"  {Toute  la  Lyre),  to 
bo  published  in  February,  1878, — they  give  evidence  bf 
an  astonishing  productiveness,  an  activity  of  creative  in- 
tellect which  far  surpasses  anything  told  us  of  Sophocles 
or  the  Persian  Saadi.  Kay,  the  one  sentence  of  preface 
to  this  "  Legend  of  the  Ages,"  dated  the  twenty-sixth  of 
February,  quietly  says;  "The  completion  of  the  Legend 
of  the  Ages  will  be  shortly  published,  provided  that  the 
end  of  the  author  does  not  take  place  before  the  end  of 
the  wort"    Therefore,  this  great  collection  of  epic  frag- 


88  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

ments  is  not  yet  complete  1  But,*m  fact,  tlie  concep- 
tion of  the  work,  and  a  portion  of  its  contents,  are  al- 
ready twenty  years  old.  In  1859,  Victor  Hugo  published 
"Tiie  Legend  of  the  Ages"  in  two  volumes, — not  the 
present  poem,  but  one  entirely  similar  in  design*  In  his 
preface  thereto,  he  indicated  that  it  was  the  first  part  of 
a  trilogy,  of  which  two  succeeding  parts  would  be  en- 
titled *<  The  End  of  Satan  "  and  "  God."  The  publication, 
at  that  time,  made  no  great  impression,  beyond  the  circle 
of  the  author's  devoted  followers.  It  is  evident  that  the 
plan  of  the  whole  work  has  been  essentially  modified 
since  then ;  but  we  have  only,  at  present,  to  deal  with 
what  he  now  offere  to  the  world. 

In  spite  of  intellectual  and  moral  aberrations,  so  fan- 
tastic and  reckless  that  they  have  rarely  been  equaled 
in  the  history  of  any  individual  life,  there  are  elements 
of  true  genius,  and  of  both  organizing  and  disorganizing 
energy  in  Victor  Hugo,  which  enforce  recognition.  He 
is  the  purest  type  of  what  Goethe  called  "  a  problematic 
nature."  He  uses  the  freedom  now  conceded  by  the 
world  to  intellect  with  a  daring  and  an  arrogance  which 
have  never  been  surpassed,  and  he  illustrates  equally  the 
profit  and  the  danger  of  such  a  self-asserted  literary  lord- 
^ship.  There  are  qualities  in  him  which  make  it  diflicult 
for  us  to  understand  why  he  should  not  have  attained  the 
very  highest  success,  until  through  a  clearer  and  more 
objective  study  of  his  works,  we  perceive  his  impatience 
of  all  truth  which  conflicts  with  his  personal  prejudices, 


VICTOR  HUGO,  30 

his  reluctance  to  sink  the  wilful  activity  of  his  mind  in 
devotion  to  profounder  knowledge  of  Man  and  IliHtory, 
and  his  inability  to  unlearn  that  habit  of  asserting  his 
individual  self  which  was  bom  of  his  early  triumphs. 
His  character  cannot  bo  understood  without  recalling 
the  story  of  his  life.  From  1822  to  1832  he  fought  as 
gallant  a  light  as  is  recorded  in  the  annals  of  literature. 
He  began  single-handed,  and  ended  by  seeing  Franco  at 
his  feet.  He  was  chiefly  right  at  the  start;  but,  as  in 
all  revolutions,  he  opposed  an  extreme  to  an  extreme. 

Then  followed  what  wo  hold  to  be  Victor  Hugo's 
great  mistake  as  an  author.  Instead  of  swinging  back 
to  some  intennediato  line  of  tnic  literary  principle,  ho 
simply  intensified  those  principles  through  which  his 
victory  was  gained.  In  many  great  authors  we  find  these 
three  stages  of  development: — first,  a  8ul>ordination  to 
forms  accepted  a«  classic ;  secondly,  a  rebellion  of  the  free 
creative  power,  which  finds  its  own  method  of  expression, 
whether  through  the  romantic  school,  or  othen\4se;  and 
lastly,  a  return  to  the  laws  of  elevation,  proportion  and 
repose,  which  are  forever  classic  in  poetry.  Victor  Hugo, 
halting  at  the  second  stage,  and  filled  with  vast  visions 
of  some  yet  undiscovered  organic  force  in  literature,  has 
dashed  off  into  space  and  become  a  comet  of  incalcula- 
ble elements,  instead  of  a  serene,  silver-shining  planet, 
filling  its  punctual  place  in  the  common  heaven  of  song. 
His  work  has  thus  grown  more  and  more  chaotic ;  genius, 
the  dexterity  of  the  literary  craftsman,  narrow  prejudice, 


I  I 

40  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

broad  glimpses  into  the  infinite  of  human  fate^  tende^ 
ness,  rant,  idyllic  sweetness  and  the  bluster  of  simulated 
passion  are  so  mingled  in  his  later  productions,  that  we 
are  tempted  to  call  them  great  and  trivial,  insane  and 
prophetic,  in  the  same  breath. 

The  "  Legend  of  the  Ages  *'  is  even  a  better  illustra- 
tion of  this  singular  development  of  the  author's  mind 
than  his  recent  prose  works*  His  leading  idea  is  to 
paint  the  stniggle  of  the  human  race  with  superstition, 
kingly  oppression,  and  all  other  woes  of  the  Past  and 
Present,  in  a  series  of  detached  pictures  drawn  from  all 
lands  and  all  ages.  But  it  is  quite  impossible  to  guess 
what  law  guided  him  in  his  selection  of  subjects.  Many 
of  the  poems  have  not  the  slightest  apparent  relevancy 
^to  the  plan;  others  either  wilfully  distort  history  or 
overlook  the  general  progress  of  the  race;  and  the  lack 
of  any  advancing  sohition  of  human  woe  and  trouble, 
through  the  original  design  of  the  Eteiiial  AVisdom, 
leaves  a  bitter  after-taste  in  the  mouth  of  the  reader. 
These  are  the  titles  of  the  general  divisions  of  the 
poem  \  "  The  Earth ;  Supremacy ;  Between  Giants  and 
Gods ;  the  Vanished  City ;  After  Gods,  Kings ;  Between 
Lions  and  Kings ;  the  Banished  Cid ;  "Welf ,  Warder  of 
Osbor;  Warnings  and  Chastisements;  the  Seven  Won- 
ders of  the  World.'*  Here  the  first  volume  ends.  "  The 
Epic  of  the  Worm ;  the  Poet  to  the  Earth-worm ;  Purity 
of  Soul;  the  Falls;  the  Pyrcncan  Cycle;  the  Comet; 
Change  of  Horizon;  the  Group  of  Idylls;  all  the  Past 


VICTOR  HUGO.  41 

and  all  the  Future;  the  Present  Time;  the  Plagues' 
Elegy:  the  Little  Ones;  Above;  the  Mountains;  the 
Temple ;  to  Man ;  Abyss." 

There  is,  however,  a  Prologue,  called,  "The  Vision 
out  of  wliich  this  Book  has  arisen."  Here,  as  else- 
where throughout  the  work,  there  are  traces  of  the  in- 
fluence of  Dante  upon  the  author;  but  the  latter  has 
aimed  at  reaching  the  gloomy  grandeur,  not  the  sharp 
distinctness  of  thought  and  image,  of  the  Tuscan  poet. 
The  versification  is  frequently  marked  by  intentional 
roughness.  Only  ^vhen  Victor  Hugo  falls  upon  a  quiet 
idyllic  theme  do  we  find  again  his  incomparable  sweet- 
ness and  harmony.  For  this  reason,  in  translating  the 
introductory  picture,  we  prefer  to  retain  the  original  mea- 
sure, and  drop  the  rhyme,  which  is  less  a  loss  to  French 
heroic  verso,  owing  to  the  repetitions  which  the  language 
allows.  Such  rhymes  as  vague  and  vaguCy  or  sombre  and 
sombre  and  the  multitudes  of  such  half-rhymes  as  tente  and 
contenUy  dhide  and  livide^  hideux  and  d'euxy  which  wo 
find  in  these  volumes,  would  be  intolerable  to  English 
ears.  The  following  "  vision "  is  put  forth  a^  the  argu- 
ment of  the  work: 

I  had  a  dream  :  the  Wall  of  the  Ages  unto  me 

Appeared,— of  live  flesh  and  rough  granite  built. 

An  immobility  made  of  restlessness, 

An  edifice  with  the  sound  of  multitudes, 

Black  loop-holes  starred  "n-ith  fierce,  out-peering  eyefl^ 

And  evolutions  of  all  monstrous  groups 


43  ESSAYS  AUD  NOTES. 

In  giant  frescoes  and  vast  bas-relieft. 

Opened  the  wall  at  times,  and  showed  the  halli)«> 

Vaults  where  the  happy  sat,  the  powerful, 

Conquerers  by  crime  imbruted,  incense-drunk, 

Interiors  of  jasper,  porphyry,  gold  ; 

Or  crowned  with  towers  or  wheat-ears,  every  age 

Was  there,  sad  sphinx  o'er  its  enigma  bent ; 

Each  stage  with  some  vague  animation  showed, 

Far  rising  into  shadow,  ^-^as  an  arm^d  host 

"Were,  with  its  leader,  suddenly  petrified, 

In  act  to  storm  by  escalade  the  Night. 

The  mass  thus  floated  as  a  cloud  that  rolls  | 

A  wall  it  was,  and  then  a  multitude  ; 

The  marble  held  the  scepter  and  the  sword. 

The  dust  lamented  and  the  dull  clay  bled. 

The  stones  that  fell  disclosed  the  human  fomu 

Man,  with  the  unknown  spirit  leading  hhn, 

Eve  undulating,  Adam  floating,  one 

And  diverse,  being,  universe,  beat  there, 

And  destiny,  black  thread  the  tomb  winds  ofC 

Sometimes  the  lightnings  on  this  livid  plane 

Flashing,  made  million  faces  suddenly  gleam* 

I  saw  the  Nought  there  which  we  call  the  All,— 

The  kings,  the  gods,  the  glory  and  the  law. 

And  generations  down  the  age-stream  borne  ; 

And,  as  I  looked,  continued  without  end 

The  plague,  woe,  hunger,  ignorance. 

The  superstition,  science,  history. 

As  a  black  colonnade  is  lost  to  view. 

This  Avail,  composed  of  all  that  crumbles  down, 

Hose  gloomy,  scarped,  and  formless.    Where  it  WM  t 

I  know  not ;  somewhere  in  a  darksome  place. 


VICTOR  HUGO,  43 

The  author  looks  steadily  upon  this  confusion,  and  sees 
that  it  is  a  mixture  of  all  human  things,  events  and  re- 
no\\Tied  pei^sonages.  While  he  gazes,  two  giant  spirits 
soar  past;  one  of  them  utters  the  word  "Fatality!"  the 
other  the  word  "Godl"  The  wall  crumbles  and  falls, 
everything  becomes  vague  and  obscure,  except  that  there 
is  a  pale  glimmering  as  of  dawn,  rising  out  of  a  cloud, 
"wherein,  without  seeing  thunder,  God  was  felt."  Then, 
as  a  close,  we  have  a  description  of  the  impression  pro- 
duced by  this  vision  upon  the  poet  (dated  Guernsey, 
April,  1857),  and  the  final  declaration: 

This  book  'tis  Babcrs  fearful  relic  left,^ 
The  dismal  Tower  of  Things,  the  edifice 
Of  evil,  good,  tears,  sacrifice,  and  woe. 
Proud,  yesterday,  and  lord  of  distant  realms, 
To-day  but  dismal  fragments  in  its  hands. 
Thrown,  scattered,  lost,  as  in  a  vale  obscure,— 
The  Human  Epic,  harsh,  immense,  and— fairn. 

The  wliole  work  is  as  curiously  mixed  as  the  ingred- 
ients of  this  proem.  It  resounds  witli  cries,  tortures,  and 
agonies,  some  keen  and  powerful,  some  unpleasantly  con- 
strained ;  but  between  them  we  come  upon  clear,  joyous 
and  exquisite  strains  of  song.  The  opening  hynm:  "  The 
Earth,"  is  one  of  these ;  and  we  give  a  few  of  the  best 
stanzas,  in  the  form  and  meter  of  the  original: 


44  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

Qlory  to  Earth  t^to  the  Dawn  where  Ood  U 
To  tingling  eyes  that  ope  in  forest  green^ 

To  flowers,  and  nests  the  Day  makes  bright  t 
Glory  to  nightly  gleams  of  snowy  hills,— 
To  the  blue  sky  which,  unexhausted,  spllli 

Buch  prodigal  morning-light  I 


Earth  shows  the  harvest,  though  she  hides  the  gold^ 
And  in  the  flying  seasons  doth  she  fold 

The  germs  of  seasons  that  shall  be,— 
Sends  birds  in  air  that  carol  :  "  Let  us  love  !  ** 
Bets  founts  in  shadow,  while  on  hills  above 

Quivers  the  great  oak-tree* 


She  pays  to  each  his  duo,  to  Day  Kight*8  hours, 

To  Night  the  Day,  the  herbs  to  rocks,  fruits  flowers  | 

She  fcedeth  all  she  doth  create  \ 
When  men  arc  doubtful,  trusts  in  her  the  tree,— 
O,  sweet  comparison,  shaming  Destiny, 

O  Nature,  holy,  great  1 

Cradle  of  Adam  and  of  Japhet  she. 

And  then  their  tomb  \  she  ordered  Tyre  to  be, 

Now  shorn  of  empire  and  of  kings. 
In  Homo  and  Sparta,  Memphis  of  old  fame, 
Wherever  Man  spake — and  the  silence  came,— 

The  loud  cicala  sings, 


VICTOR  HUGO.  45 

•.  .  And  why  ?  To  quiet  all  who  sleep  in  dust.  i 

And  why  ?  Because  the  apotheosis  must 

Succeed  the  ruin  and  the  wrong  ; 
After  the  ♦*  No  I  "  the  ♦'  Yes  I "  be  spoken  then, 
After  the  silent  vanishing  of  men 
*  The  world's  mysterious  song. 

Earth's  friends  are  harvestmen  ;  when  evening  falls 
She  fain  would  free  her  dark  horizon-walla 

From  the  keen  swarm  of  ravenous  crows  ; 
When  the  tired  ox  says  :  *'  Home,  now,  let  us  fare  !•* 
And  in  the  farmer^s  hands,  returning  there, 

The  plowshare-armor  glows. 

Incessant,  transient  blossoms  bears  her  sod  ; 
They  never  breathe  the  least  complaint  to  God  : 

Chaste  lilies,  vines  that  ripen  free. 
The  shivering  myrtles  never  send  a  cry 
From  winds  profane  up  to  the  sacred  sky, 

To  move  with  innocent  plea. 

Wo  cannot  pass  in  review  all  the  poems  drawn  from 
the  ancient  themes.  Those  which  are  purely  philosophical, 
such  as  "The  Titan,"  have  a  vague  and  shadowy  mean- 
ing, but  no  tangible  outlines.  "  The  Three  Hundred  "  (of 
Thermopylae),  on  the  other  hand,  contains  a  description  of 
the  army  of  Xerxes,  which  is  so  brilliant  and  full  of  move- 
ment that  we  do  not  stop  to  inquire  into  its  historical  cor- 
rectness. One  of  the  longest  and  most  satisfactory  poems 
in  the  fmst  volume  is  the  story  of  the  Oid,  which  is  told 


it  ESSAYS  AND  NOT£S, 

in  admirably  clear  and  liqnid  verse.  But  we  pi^Bsently 
come  upon  a  singular  dramatic  fragment,  called  ""Welf, 
the  "Warder  pf  Osbor,' *  which  seems  to  be  an  arbitrary  un- 
historical  invention.  The  cliaracters  are  "Welf,  the  Ger- 
man Emperor  Otto,  Pope  Silvester,  "  The  King  of  Aries,*' 
"  Cyadmis,  Marquis  of  Thuringia  '*  (!)  and  a  chorus  of  sol- 
diers and  people.  Welf  (Guelf)  is  represented  as  the  incar- 
nation of  the  spirit  of  Freedom,  although  his  family  name 
denotes  the  Papal  party  in  the  mediseval  wars*  Where 
the  castle  of  "  Osbor  *'  is,  we  are  not  informed.  It  is  not 
necessary,  in  such  matters,  for  the  author  to  confine  him- 
self to  strict  historical  truth,  but  he  should  at  least  not 
violate  all  historical  features  in  such  grotesque  wise.  In 
the  division  called,  "  After  the  Gods,  the  Kings,"  there  is 
a  stirring  little  chamon^  in  Victor  Hugo's  old  manner.  It 
is  called  "Z^«  Keitveti^^  ("Troopers"),  and  is  evidently 
meant  to  describe  the  mercenaries  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
It  is  hardly  possible  to  translate  its  short  lines  and  two 
only  rhjines;  so  we  give  two  stanzas  of  the  original: 

•'Sonnez,  clairons, 

Sonnez,  cymbales  1 
On  entcndra  siffler  Ics  balles  ; 
L'ennemi  vient,  nous  le  battrons  ; 
Les  d^routes  sont  des  cavales 
Qui  s'envolent  quand  nous  soufflons  ; 
Nous  jouerons  aux  des  sur  les  dalles  ( 

Sonnez,  rixdales 

8onnez,  doublons  1 


VICTOR  HUGO,  47 

**Sonnez,  clairons, 
Sonnez,  cymbales  1 
On  entendra  sifflcr  les  balles  ; 
Nous  sommcs  les  dura  forgerons 
Des  victoires  imperiales  ; 
Personne  n'a  vu  nos  talons  ; 
Kous  jouerons  aux  dcs  sur  les  dalles  ; 
Bonncz,  rixdalcs, 
Sonnez,  doublons  t^* 

The  subject  of  the  smaller  poems  are  not  only  willfully 
but  oftentimes  whimsically  chosen.  Thus,  in  "  Homo 
Duplex,"  we  have  sixteen  lines,  representing  soul  and  body 
under  the  fonns  of  an  angel  and  an  ape.  This  is  followed 
by  "  A  Yerse  from  the  Koran,"  eight  lines  long,  and  one  of 
the  least  significant  in  the  volume.  The  want  of  any  clear, 
elevated  philosophical  plan  in  the  work  is  sufficiently  evident 
from  the  fact  that  all  reference  to  Egypt's  great  share  in  the 
civilization  of  man  is  omitted ;  that  all  ancient  Indian  culture 
is  represented  by  a  single  apologue ;  that  of  the  monotheis- 
tic victory  of  the  Hebrews,  we  have  nothing ;  that  the  su- 
preme art  of  Greece,  the  marvelous  civil  organization  of 
Borne,  are  hardly  touched  upon ;  that  the  Middle  Ages  are 
given  to  us  mainly  as  legends  of  Spain  and  the  Pyrenees ; 
and  that  all  reference  to  the  achievements  of  the  German 
race  is  strenuously  avoided.  He  even  says,  toward  the 
dose  of  the  work : 

It  is  in  wandering  thus,  and  deeper  plummets  buried, 
That  EfvXtir  found  a  law,  Columbus  found  a  worid. 


48  MSSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

Euler,  thongli  a  German,  was  a  Kussian  subject :  hence 
his  name  is  used.  The  thought  of  the  author  requires  the 
name  of  Kepler :  nevertheless;  we  will  give  Victor  Hugo 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  and  admit  that  he  may  not  have 
known  of  Kepler.  But  if  we  leave  him  his  free,  arrogant 
will, — accept  his  mingling  of  piercing  insight  and  crass 
ignorance, — in  short,  if  we  take  the  whole  poem  for  what 
it  actually  is,  a  "Wall  of  the  Ages  (to  amplify  his  own  ex- 
pression a  little)  built  of  living  flesh,  coarse  granite,  mud, 
tinsel,  nuggets  of  gold,  and  full  of  gaps  and  chasms,  part 
firmly-based  and  part  very  shaky, — we  shall  enjoy  it  all 
the  better.  It  has  beauties  enough  to  repay  reading,  but 
not  coherent  idea  enough  to  repay  study. 

The  second  volume  opens  with  a  poem — ^much  too 
long — called  "The  Epic  of  the  TVorm."  It  simply  ex- 
tends through  the  whole  universe  the  imago  of  Edgar 
A.  Poe^B  "  The  Conqueror  Worm."  The  meaning  is  too 
obvious  to  need  explanation;  but,  in  spito  of  its  being 
so  commonplace,  Victor  Hugo  has  made  it  fresh  again 
by  some  new  and  daring  variations.  We  will  quote  four 
of  the  most  striking  stanzas,  giving  the  first  also  in  the 
original : 

**Dieu  qui  m'avait  fait  Ver,  Je  vous  feral  fum^e. 
81  jo  ne  puis  toucher  votre  essence  Innomm^e,  ^ 

Je  puis  tonger  du  moins 
L^amour  dans  Thomme,  et  Tastre  au  fond  du  ciel  liYido, 
Dieu  jaloux,  et,  faisant  autour  de  vous  le  vide, 
Vous  oter  vos  t^molns.** 


VICTOR  HUGO,  49 

God  having  made  me  worm,  I  make  you— smoke, 
Though  safe  your  nameless  essence  from  my  stroke, 

Yet  do  I  gnaw,  no  less, 
Love  in  the  heart,  stars  in  the  livid  space, -^ 
.  God  jealous,— making  vacant  thus  your  place,-* 
And  steal  your  witnesses. 

Since  the  star  flames,  man  would  be  wrong  to  teach 
That  the  grave's  worm  such  glory  cannot  reach  ; 

Naught  real  is,  save  mo. 
Within  the  blue,  as  'noath  the  marble  slab,  I  lie  i 
I  bite,  at  once,  the  star  within  the  sky, 

The  apple  on  the  tree. 

To  gnaw  yon  star  is  not  more  tough  to  me 
Than  hanging  grapes  on  vines  of  Sicily  ; 

I  clip  the  rays  that  fall  ; 
Eternity  yields  not  to  splendors  brave. 
Fly,  ant,  all  creatures  die,  and  naught  can  save 

The  constellations  all. 

The  starry  ship,  high  in  the  ether-sea, 

Must  split  and  wreck  in  the  end  :  this  thing  ihaU  be  t 

The  broad-ringed  Saturn  toss 
To  ruin  ;  Sirlus,  touched  by  me,  decay, 
At  the  small  boat  from  Ithaca  away 

That  steers  to  Ealymnoa, 

Then  follows  «The  Poet  to  the  Earth-Wonn,"  and 
among  other  irrelevant  matter,  "the  Pjrenean  Ojle"  of 
romantic  legends.    We  will  pass  all  these  bj,  as  of  less 


50  ESSAYS  AND  i^OTES, 

interest,  and  pause  at  the  most  charming  portion  of  the 
whole  work,  which  the  author  calls  "  A  Group  of  Idyls.'' 
They  are  twenty-two  in  number,  beginning  with  Orpheus 
and  ending  with  Andr^  Ch^nier.  They  have  but  the  re- 
motest connection  with  the  plan  of  the  work:  some  of 
them  seem  singularly  out  of  placo^  as  Aristophanes,  Dante, 
Shakespeare,  Diderot,  and  Voltaire:  and  we  are  greatly 
surprised  to  find  in  this  illustrious  company  Ttacan,  page  of 
Henri  lY.  and  pupil  of  Malesherbes,  Chaulieu,  who  was 
called  the  French  Anacreon  in  his  day,  but  died  young,  and 
Segrais,  of  whom  the  world  knows  really  nothing.  The 
attempt  to  force  this  list  Upon  us  as  that  of  the  typical 
idyllists  of  the  world  (if  that  be  the  author^s  meaning)  pro- 
vokes a  feeling  of  resentment.  The  world  is  growing  too 
intelligent  to  accept  the  dictation  of  any  eccentric  indi- 
vidual taste.  But  some  of  the  short  poems  in  this  group 
are  very  striking.    Take  the  following  as  a  specimen : 

SOLOMON. 

1  am  the  king  who  mystic  power  commanded  \ 
I  built  the  Temple,  mined  towns  supreme  ; 

Hiram,  my  architect,  and  Charos,  my  right-handed, 
Still  hero  beside  me  dream.  ^ 

One  as  a  trowel,  one  as  a  sword,  was  given  ; 

I  let  them  plan,  and  what  they  did  was  well : 
My  breath  mounts  higher,  nearer  unto  heaven 

Than  Libyan  whirlwinds  swell  •,— 


VICTOR  HUGO.  '51 

.,  ^  God  sometimes  feels  it.    Child  of  guilty  kisses, 
Vast,  gloomy  is  my  wisdom  :  demons  shun 
To  take  between  high  Heaven  and  their  abysses, 
A  judge  but  Solomon. 

I  make  men  tremble,  and  believe  my  story  ; 

Conquering,  they  hail  and  follow  to  my  feast :  , 

As  king,  I  bear  down  mortals  with  the  glory. 

And  with  the  gloom,  as  priest. 

Mine  was  of  festals  and  of  cups  the  vision, 

The  finger  writing  Mem  Tehel  then, 
And  war,  and  chariots,  clarions,  and  collliion 

Of  horses  and  of  men. 

Grand  as  some  sullen  idoVs  form  discloses, 

Mysterious  as  a  garden's  closed  retreat, 
Yet,  though  I  bo  more  mighty  than  the  roses 

In  moons  of  May  are  sweet, 

Take  from  me  sceptre  with  the  bright  gold  laden. 
My  throne,  the  archer  on  my  tower  above, 

But  men  shall  never  take,  O  sweet  young  maiden, 
From  out  my  heart  its  love  ! 

Men  shall  not  take  the  love,  0  virgin  purest. 
That  as  in  fountains  beams  to  mirror  thee, 

More  than  from  out  the  darkness  of  the  forest 
The  song-bird^8  minstrelsy  1 

Still  more  satisfactory  is  tHs,  wherein  the  entire  free- 


63  ESSAYS  A:^D  NOTES. 

dom  of  the  poet's  imagination  is  characterized  by  an  ex- 
quisite grace : 

M08CHU8. 

Bathe  ye,  0  Nymphs,  in  the  cool  fdrest-springs  t 
Although  the  thicket  with  dull  voices  rings, 

And  in  its  rocks  the  eaglets  nest  finds  place, 
*Twa8  ne'er  invaded  by  such  gathering  gloom 
Ai  grows  to  darkness,  and  will  yield  no  room 
To  nude  Kesra's  grace. 

Fair  is  Nesera,  pure,  and  glimmers  white, 
Transparent,  through  the  forest's  horrent  night ; 

An  echo  dialogues  with  one  afar, 
Gossips  a  hive  with  flowers  upon  the  leas,— 
What  says  the  echo  ? — what  the  wandering  bees  f 
She,  naked,  is  a  star  t 

For,  when  thou  bathest,  starry  splendor  falls, 
Chaste  one,  on  thee,  with  vague  fear  that  appalls 

And  beauty's  boldness  ever  must  imbue  t 
In  shades  where  eye  of  ardent  faun  peers  now, 
To  show  thee  woman, — ^knowest,  Neoera,  thou,— » 
Shows  thee  as  goddess  too  1 

Though  man  be  darkened  by  the  high  king's  powers 
Above  my  head  I  here  have  built  a  bower 

With  boughs  of  elm  and  boughs  of  holly  green  | 
1  love  the  meadows,  woods,  the  unfettered  air, 
Neoera  Phyllodoxis,  and  the  fair 

Fond  idyl's  strain  setene* 


VICTOR  HUGO.  63 

Though  hero,  where  sleep  sometimes  our  lids  may  fill, 
The  distant  thunders  stray  from  hill  to  hill, — 

Though  spectral  lightnings  here  forever  shoot, 
And  the  sky  threatens, — as  we  pace  along 
Is  it  forbid  to  dream,  or  hear  the  song, 

Betwixt  the  thunders,  of  a  flute  ? 

Of  the  remaining  poems,  "  The  Cemetery  of  Ejlau  "  is 
much  the  best.  It  is  a  story  of  the  Napoleonic  ware,  told 
with  all  the  vigor  and  keen  dramatic  effect  which  Victor 
Hugo  knows  so  well  how  to  use.  The  volume  contains 
also  a  bitter  poem  on  Napoleon  III.,  episodes  of  the  Com- 
mune, and  the  deep-mouthed  panting  after  revanche! 
which  Victor  Hugo,  Burgundian  (and  thoroforo  ancient 
German)  in  blood,  daro  not  omit— for,  if  ho  did,  ho 
might  be  consistent  in  his  theories  of  humanity. 

The  concluding  poem  is  called  "  Abyss."  Man  speaks 
first,  then  the  Earth,  and  after  the  bright  joyous  hymn 
with  which  the  work  opens,  we  are  amazed  to  hear  her 
thus  speaking  to  the  human  race — which  we  wero  led  to 
believe  she  loved: 

Only  my  vermin,  thou  ! 
Sleep,  heavy  need,  fever  and  subtile  fire, 
The  crawling  belly,  hunger,  thirst,  vile  paunch. 
"Weigh  thee,  black  fugitive,  with  unnumbered  ills. 
Old,  thou^rt  but  spectre,  dead,  thou  art  but  shade  : 
Thou  goest  to  ashes,  I  exist  in  day. 

Saturn,  the  Sun,  Sirius,  Aldebaran,  the  Comet,  Ursa 


JaI 


54  £SfAVSAJ^DA'dr£S. 

Major,  the  Zodiac,  the  Milky  Way,  the  Nebnlae,  then  speak 
'^but  wo  do  not  iind  thoir  mcBsogos  either  so  Bublime  or 
00  myBtorioitu  an  thoir  titlen.  *  At  the  laitt,  ^*  the  Infinite  **— * 
utters  this  line: 

Multiplied  life  inhabits  my  sombre  unit  j. 

And  "  Diou  "  responds  i 

I  havo  but  to  breathe,  and  all  wore  dark. 

If  there  were  any  distinctly  announced  message  of  hope 
to  mankind  in  this  '*  Legend  of  |  the  Ages,"  wo  should  re- 
joice to  give  it.  There  are  manifold — and,  we  will  not 
doubt,  very  sincoro-^tokons  of  sympathy  with  human 
suffering  and  weakness;  of  a  broad,  generous  disregard 
of  titles,  renowns  and  accepted  values  in  History.  "We 
could  feel  these  qualities  more  deeply,  and  acknowledge 
them  more  gratefully,  if  they  did  not  co-exist  with  the 
evidence  of  restricting  prejudice,  singular  lapses  of 
knowledge,  and  arrogant  individual  assertion. 

Mabch,  1877. 


THE  GEKMAN  BUENS, 

THE  extreme  eouthwestem  comer  of  Germany  is  an 
irregular  riglit-angle,  formed  by  tlio  course  of  the 
Rhine.  Within  this  angle  and  an  hypothenuse  drawn  from 
the  Lake  of  Constance  to  Carlsruhe  lies  a  wild  mountain- 
region — a  lateral  offshoot  from  the  central  chain  which  ex- 
tends through  Europe  from  west  to  east — known  to  all 
readers  of  robber-romances  as  the  Black  Forest,  It  is  a 
cold,  undulating  upland,  intersected  with  deep  valleys, 
which  descend  to  the  plains  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Danube, 
and  covered  with  great  tracts  of  fir-forest.  Here  and  there 
a  peak  rises  high  above  the  general  level,  the  Feldberg  at- 
taining a  height  of  five  thousand  feet.  The  aspect  of  this 
region  is  stem  and  gloomy :  the  fir-woods  appear  darker 
than  elsewhere ;  the  frequent  little  lakes  are  as  inky  in  hue 
as  the  pools  of  the  High  Alps;  and  the  meadows  of  living 
emerald  give  but  a  partial  brightness  to  the  scenery.  Here, 
however,  the  solitary  traveller  may  adventure  without  fear. 
Robbers  and  robber-castles  have  long  since  passed  away, 
and  the  people,  rough  and  uncouth  as  they  may  at  first 
seem,  are  as  kindly-hearted  as  they  are  honest.    Among 


56  MSSA  YS  AND  NOTE& 

them  was  bom — and  in  their  incomprehenfiible  dialect 
wrote — Hebel,  the  German  Bums. 

We  dislike  the  practice  of  using  the  name  of  one  author 
as  the  characteristic  designation  of  another.  It  is,  at  best, 
the  sign  of  an  imperfect  fame,  implying  rather  the  imita- 
tion of  a  scholar  than  the  independent  position  of  a  master. 
We  can,  nevertheless,  in  no  other  way  indicate  in  advance 
the  place  which  the  subject  of  our  sketch  occupies  in  the 
literature  of  Germany.  A  contemporary  of  Bums,  and 
ignorant  of  the  English  language,  there  is  no  evidence  that 
he  had  ever  even  heard  of  the  former ;  but  Bums,  being 
the  first  truly  great  poet  who  succeeded  in  making  classic 
a  local  dialect,  thereby  constituted  himself  an  illustrious 
standard,  by  which  his  successors  in  the  same  path  must 
be  measured.  Thus  Bellman  and  Beranger  have  been  in- 
appropriately invested  with  his  mantle,  from  the  one  fact 
of  their  being  song-writers  of  a  democratic  stamp.  The 
Gascon,  Jasmin,  better  deserves  the  title ;  and  Longf ellowj 
in  translating  his  "  Blind  Girl  of  Cast^l-Cuille,"  says,— 

"  Only  the  lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 
Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright "  :— 

a  conviction  which  we  have  frequently  shared,  in  transla- 
ting our  German  author. 

.  It  is  a  matter  of  surprise  to  us  that,  while  Jasmin's 
poems  have  gone  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  France,  the 
name  of  John  Peter  Hebel — who  possesses  more  legitimate 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS.  57 

claims  to.  the  peculiar  distinction  which  Bums  achieved— 
is  not  only  unknown  outside  of  Gennany,  but  not  even 
familiarly  known  to  the  Germans  themselves.    The  most 
probable  explanation  is,  that  the  Alemannic  dialect^  in 
which  he  wrote,  is  spoken  only  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Black  Forest  and  a  portion  of  Suabia,  and  cannot  be  under- 
stood, without  a  glossary,  by  the  great  body  of  the  North- 
Germans.    The  same  cause  would  operate,  with  greater 
force,  in  preventing  a  translation  into  foreign  languages. 
It  is,  in  fact,  only  within  the  last  twenty  years  that  the 
Germans  have  become  acquainted  with  Bums, — chiefly 
through  the  admirable  translations  of  the  poet  Freiligrath, 
To  Hebel  belongs  the  merit  of  having  bent  one  of  tho 
harshest  of  German  dialects  to  the  use  of  poetry.    "We 
doubt  whether  tho  lyre  of  Apollo  was  ever  fashioned  from 
a  wood  of  rougher  grain.    Broad,  crabbed,  guttural,  and 
unpleasant  to  the  ear  which  is  not  thoroughly  accustomed 
to  its  sound,  the  Alemannic  ^atoia  was,  in  truth,  a  most  un- 
promising material.    Tho  stranger,  even  though  he  wero 
a  good  German  scholar,  would  never  suspect  tho  racy 
humor,  the  Twitw,  childlike  fancy,  and  the  pure  human 
tenderness    of   expression   which   a   little    culture    has 
brought   to  bloom  on  such  a  soil.      The   contractions, 
elisions,  and  corruptions  which  German  words  undergo, 
with  the  multitude  of  terms  in  common  use   derived 
from  the  Gothic,  Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian,  give  it  al- 
most  the   character   of  a  difterent   language.     It  was 
Hebel's  mother-tongaei  and  his   poetic   faculty   always 


58  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

returned  to  its  use  with  a  fresh  delight  which  insured 
BucceBB.    His  German,  poems  are  inferior  in  all  respects. 

Let  us  first  glance  at  the  .poet's  life, — a  life  uneventful, 
perhaps,  yet  interesting  from  the  course  of  development 
He  was  bom  in  Basle,  in  May,  1760,  in  the  house  of 
Major  Iselin,  where  both  his  father  and  mother  were 
at  service.  The  former,  a  weaver  by  trade,  afterwards 
became  a  soldier,  and  accompanied  the  Major  to  Flanders, 
France  and  Corsica.  He  had  picked  up  a  good  deal  of 
stray  knowledge  on  his  campaigns,  and  had  a  strong  nat- 
ural taste  for  poetry.  The  qualities  of  the  son  were  in* 
herited  from  him  rather  than  from  the  mother,  of  whom 
wo  know  nothing  more  than  that  she  was  a  steady,  in- 
dustrious person.  The  parents  lived  during  the  winter 
in  the  little  village  of  Hauson,  Ju  the  Black  Forest,  but 
with  the  approach  of  spring  returned  to  Basle  for  their 
summer  service  in  Major  Iselin's  house.    - 

The  boy  was  but  a  year  old  when  his  father  died, 
and  the  discipline  of  such  a  restless  spirit  as  he  ex- 
hibited in  early  childhood  seems  to  have  been  a  task 
almost  beyond  the  poor  widow*s  powers.  An  incorrigi- 
ble spirit  of  mischief  possessed  him.  He  was  an  arrant 
scapegrace,  plundering  cupboards,  gardens  and  orchards, 
lifting  the  gates  of  mill-races  by  night,  and  playing  a 
thousand  other  practical  and  not  always  innocent  jokes. 
Neither  counsel  nor  punishment  availed,  and  the  entire 
weight  of  his  good  qualities,  as  a  counterbalance,  barely 
sufficed  to  prevent  him  from  losing  the  patrons  whom 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  59 

his  bright,  eager,  inquisitive  mind  attracted.  Something 
of  this  was  undoubtedly  congenital,  and  there  are  indica* 
tions  that  the  strong  natural  impulse,  held  in  check  only 
by  a  powerful  will  and  a  watchful  conscience,  was  tho 
torment  of  his  life.  In  his  later  years,  when  he  filled 
the  posts  of  Ecclesiastical  Counsellor  and  Professor  in  tho 
Gymnasium  at  Carlsruhe,  the  phrenologist  Gall,  in  a  sci- 
entific seancCf  made  an  examination  of  his  head.  "A 
most  remarkable  development  of" ,  said  Gall,  ab- 
ruptly breaking  off,  nor  could  he  be  induced  to  complete 
the  sentence.  Hebel,  however,  frankly  exclaimed, — "You 
certainly  mean  the  thievish  propensity.  I  know  I  have  it 
by  nature,  for  I  continually  feel  its  suggestions."  What 
a  picture  is  presented  by  this  confession !  A  pure,  hon- 
est and  honorable  life,  won  by  a  battle  with  evil  desires, 
which,  commencing  with  birth,  ceased  their  assaults  only 
at  the  brink  of  the  grave!  A  daily  struggle,  and  a 
daily  victory! 

Hebel  lost  hig  mother  in  his  thirteenth  year,  but  he 
was  fortunate  in  possessing  generous  patrons,  who  con- 
tributed enough  to  the  slender  means  he  inherited  to  en- 
able him  to  enter  the  Gymnasium  at  Carlsruhe.  Leaving 
this  institution  with  the  reputation  of  a  good  classical 
scholar,  he  entered  the  University  at  Erlangen  as  a  stu- 
dent of  theology.  Here  his  jovial,  reckless  temperament, 
finding  a  congenial  atmosphere,  so  got  the  upperhand 
that  he  barely  succeeded  in  passing  the  necessary  exami- 
nation, in  1780.    At  the  end  of  two  years,  during  whicli 


I 

60  ESSAYS  AND  NOTJES. 

time  lie  Bnpported  himBelf  as  a  private  tutor,  he  was  or- 
dained, and  received  a  meagre  situation  as  teacher  in  the 
Academy  at  Lorrach,  with  a  salary  of  one  hundred  and 
forty  dollars  *a  year  I  Laboring  patiently  in  this  humble 
position  for  eight  years,  he  was  at  last  rewarded  by  be- 
ing transferred  to  the  Gymnasium  at  Carlsruhe,  with  the 
rank  of  Sub-Deacon.  Hither,  the  Markgraf  Frederick 
of  Baden,  attracted  by  the  warmth,  simplicity  and  genial 
humor  of  the  man,  came  habitually  to  listen  to  his  ser-. 
mons.  lie  found  himself,  without  seeking  it,  in  the 
path  of  promotion,  and  his  life  thenceforth  was  a  series 
of  sure  and  moderate  successes.  Ilis  expectations,  in- 
deed, were  so  humble  that  they  were  always  exceeded  by 
his  rewards.  "When  Baden  became  a  Grand-Duchy,  with 
a  constitutional  form  of  government,  it  required  much 
persuasion  to  induce  him  to  accept  the  rank  of  Prelate, 
with  a  seat  in  the  Upper  House.  His  friends  were  dis- 
appointed that,  with  his  readiness  and  fluent  power  of 
speech,  he  took  so  little  part  in  the  legislative  proceed- 
ings. To  one  who  reproached  him  for  this  timidity  ho 
naively  wrote, — "  Oh,  you  have  a  right  to  talk :  you  are 
the  son  of  Pastor  N.  in  X.  Before  you  were  twelve 
years  old,  you  heard  yourself  called  Mr.  Gottlieb;  and 
when  you  went  with  your  father  down  the  street,  and 
the  judge  or  a  notary  met  you,  they  took  off  their  hats, 
you  waiting  for  your  father  to  return  the  greeting,  be- 
fore you  even  lifted  your  cap.  But  I,  as  you  well  know, 
grew  up  as  the  son  of  a  poor  widow  in  Hansen;  and 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS.  61 

when  I  accompanied  my  mother  to  Schopfheim  or  Basle, 
and  we  happened  to  meet  a  notary,  she  commanded, 
*  Peter,  jerk  your  cap  off,  there  's  a  gentleman  1 ' — but 
when  the  judge  or  the  counsellor  appeared,  she  called 
out  to  me,  when  they  were  twenty  paces  off,  *  Peter, 
stand  still  where  you  are,  and  off  with  your  cap  quick, 
the  Lord  Judge  is  cominM'  Now  you  can  easily  im- 
agine how  I  feel,  when  I  recall  those  times, — and  I  re- 
call them  often, — sitting  in  the  Chamber  among  Barons, 
Counsellors  of  State,  Ministers  and  Generals,  with  Counts 
and  Princes  of  the  reigning  House  before  me."  Ilebel 
may  have  felt  that  rank  is  but  the  guinea-stamp,  but 
ho  never  would  have  dared  to  speak  it  out  with  the  de- 
fiant independence  of  Bums.  Socially,  however,  he  was 
thoroughly  democratic  in  his  tastes;  and  his  chief  objec- 
tion to  accepting  the  dignity  of  Prelate  was  the  fear  that 
it  might  restrict  his  intercourse  with  humbler  friends. 

His  ambition  appears  to  have  been  mainly  confined  to 
liis  theological  labors,  and  he  never  could  have  dreamed 
that  his  after-fame  was  to  rest  upon  a  few  poems  in  a 
rough  mountain  dialect,  written  to  beguile  his  intense 
longing  for  the  wild  scenery  of  his  early  home.  After 
his  transfer  to  Carlsruhe,  he  remained  several  years  ab- 
sent from  the  Black  Forest;  and  the  pictures  of  its  dark 
hills,  its  secluded  valleys,  and  their  rude,  warm-hearted 
and  unsophisticated  inhabitants,  became  more  and  more 
fresh  and  lively  in  his  memory.  Distance  and  absence 
turned  the  quaint  dialect  to  music,  and  out  of  this  mild 


62  £SSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 

home-eickness  grew  the  Alemannic  poems.  A  healthy 
oyster  never  produces  a  pearL 

These  poems,  written  in  the  years  1801  and  1802, 
were  at  first  circulated  in  manuscript  among  the  author's 
friends.  He  resisted  the  proposal  to  collect  and  publish 
them,  until  the  prospect  of  pecuniary  advantage  decided 
him  to  issue  an  anonymous  edition*  The  success  of  the 
experiment  was  so  positive  that  in  the  course  of  five  years 
four  editions  appeared, — a  great  deal  for  those  days.  Not 
only  among  his  native  Alemanni,  and  in  Baden  and 
Wurtemberg,  where  the  dialect  was  more  easily  under- 
stood, but  from  all  parts  of  Germany,  from  poets  and 
scholars,  came  messages  of  praise  and  appreciation.  Jean 
Paul  (Eichter)  was  one  of  Ilebers  first  and  warmest  ad- 
mirers. "  Our  Alemannic  poet,''  he  wrote,  "  has  life  and 
feeling  for  everything, — the  open  heart,  the  open  arms 
of  love;  and  every  star  and  every  flower  are  human  in 
hifl  sight,  .  •  .  ♦  In  other,  better  words,— the  evening- 
glow  of  a  lovely,  peaceful  soul  slumbers  upon  all  the 
hills  he  bids  arise ;  for  the  flowers  of  poetry  he  substi- 
tutes the  flower-goddess  Poetry  herself;  he  sets  to  his  lips 
the  Swiss  Alp-horn  of  youthful  longing  and  joy,  while 
pointing  with  the  other  hand  to  the  sunset-gleam  of  the 
lofty  glaciers,  and  dissolves  in  prayer,  as  the  sound  of 
the  chapel-bells  is  flung  down  from  the  mountains." 

Contrast  this  somewhat  confused  rhapsody  with  the 
clear,  precise,  yet  genial  words  wherewith  Goethe  wel- 
comed the  new  poet.    He  instantly  seized,  weighed  in 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  63 

the  fine  balance  of  his  ordered  mind,  and  valued  with 
nice  discrimination,    those    qualities  of   Hebers    genius 
which  had  but  stirred    the    splendid  chaos  of   Richter 
with  an  emotion  of  vague  delight.     "  The  author  of  these 
poems,"  says  he,  in  the  Jena  "  Literaturzeitung,"  (1804,) 
*^  is  about  to  achieve  a  place  of  his  own  on  the  Gcnnan 
Parnassus,     His  talent  manifests  itself  in  two  opposite 
directions.    On  the  one  hand,  he  observes  with  a  fresh, 
cheerful  glance  those  objects  of  Nature  which  express 
their  life  in  positive  existence,  in  growth  and  in  motion, 
(objects  which  we  are  accustomed  to  call  lifelc%B^  and 
thereby  approaches  the  field  of  descriptive  poetry;  yet 
he  succeeds,  by  his  happy  personifications,  in  lifting  his 
picture  to  a  loftier  plane  of  Art.     On  the  other  hand,  he 
inclines  to  the  didactic  and  the  allegorical;  but    here, 
also,  the  same  power  of  personification  comes  to  his  aid, 
and  as,  in  the  one  case,  he  finds  a  soul  for  his  bodies,  so, 
in  the  other,  he  finds  a  body  for  his  souls.     As  the 
ancient    poets,   and    others    who    have   been    developed 
through  a  plastic  sentiment  for  Art,    introduce  loftier 
spirits,  related  to  the  gods,— such   as  nymphs,    dryada 
and  hamadryads, — in  the  place  of  rocks,  fountains   and 
trees:  so  the  author  transforms  these  objects  into  peas- 
ants, and  countrifies  \ycTbaueT(\  the  universe  in  the  most 
ndive^  quaint    and  genial  manner,  until  the  landscape, 
in  which  we  nevertheless  always  recognize  the  human 
figure,  seems  to  become  one  with  man  in  the  cheerful 
enchantment  exercised  upon  our  fancy." 


64  ESSAYS  AUD  NOTES, 

Tills  is  entirely  correct,  as  a  poetic  cliaracterization. 
Hebel,  however,  possesses  the  additional  merit — no  slight 
one  either— of  giving  faithful  expression  to  the  thoughts, 
emotions,  and  passions  of  the  simple  people  among 
whom  his  childhood  was  passed.  The  hearty  native 
kindness,  the  tenderness,  hidden  under  a  rough  exterior, 
the  lively,  droll,  unformed  fancy,  the  timidity  and  the 
boldness  of  love,  the  tendency  to  yield  to  temptation, 
and  the  unfeigned  piety  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Black  Forest,  are  all  reproduced  in  his  poems.  To  say 
that  they  teach,  more  or  less  directly,  a  wholesome 
morality,  is  but  indifferent  praise;  for  morality  is  the 
clieap  veneering  wherewith  would-be  poets  attempt  to 
conceal  the  lack  of  the  true  faculty.  We  prefer  to  let 
our  readers  judge  for  themselves  concerning  this  fea* 
ture  of  HebePs  poetry. 

The  Alemannic  dialect,  we  have  said,  is  at  first  harsh 
to  the  car.  It  requires,  indeed,  not  a  little  practice,  to 
perceive  its  especial  beauties ;  since  these  consist  in  cer- 
tain quaint  playful  inflections,  and  elisions,  which,  like 
the  speech  of  children,  have  a  fresh,  natural,  simple 
charm  of  their  own.  The  changes  of  pronunciation,  in 
German  words,  are  curious.  K  becomes  a  light  gutural 
eA,  and  a  great  number  of  monosyllabic  words— especially 
those  ending  in  ut  and  iih — receive  a  peculiar  twist  from 
the  introduction  of  e  or  ei :  as  gut^  friihy  which  become 
guet^  frueih.  This  seems  to  be  a  characteristic  feature 
of  the   South-German  dialects,  though  in  none  is  it  so 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  05 

pronounced  as  in  the  Alemannic.  Tlie  cliango  of  ist 
into  isch^  hast  into  hesch,  ich  into  ?',  dich  into  de^  etc., 
is  much  more  widely  spread,  among  tlio  peasantry,  and 
is  readily  learned,  even  by  the  foreign  reader.  But  a 
good  German  scholar  would  bo  somewhat  puzzled  by 
the  consolidation  of  several  abbreviated  words  into  a 
single  one,  which  occurs  in  almost  every  Alemannic 
sentence:  for  instance,  in  woni  ho  would  have  some 
difficulty  in  recognizing  wo  ich;  sdfjcno  does  not  sug- 
gest sage  ihnen,  nor  vffeme,  auf  einem. 

Those  singularities  of  the  dialect  render  the  transla- 
tion of  Ilebers  poems  into  a  foreign  language  a  work 
of  great  difficulty.  In  the  absence  of  any  English  dia- 
lect which  possesses  corresponding  features,  the  peculiar 
quaintncss  and  raciness  which  they  confer  must  inevit- 
ably be  lost.  Fresh,  wild  and  lovely  as  the  Schwarz- 
wald  heather,  they  are  equally  apt  to  die  in  transplant- 
ing. How  much  they  lose  by  being  converted  into 
classical  German  was  so  evident  to  us  (fancy,  **  Scots 
who  have  with  Wallace  bled  "I)  that  we  at  first  shrank 
from  the  experiment  of  reproducing  them  in  a  lan- 
guage still  further  removed  from  the  original.  Cer- 
tainly, classical  English  would  not  answer;  the  indi- 
vidual soul  of  the  poems  could  never  be  recognized 
in  such  a  garb.  The  tongue  of  Bums  can  be  spoken 
only  by  a  bom  Scot;  and  our  Yankee,  which  is  rather 
a  grotesque  English  than  a  dialect,  is  unfortunately  so 
associated  with   the   coarse   and   the   farcical — Lowell's 


66  £s)sAyS  AND  NOTES, 

little  poem  of  "'Zekers  CourtBhip**  being  the  einglo 
exception — that  it  seems  hardly  adapted  to  the  simple 
and  tender  fancies  of  Rebel.  Like  the  comedian  whose 
one  seriotis  attempt  at  tragic  acting  was  greeted  with 
roars  of  laughter,  as  an  admirable  burlesque,  the  reader 
might,  in  such  a  case,  persist  in  seeing  fun  where  sen- 
timent was  intended. 

In  this  dilemma,  it  occurred  to  us  that  the  common, 
rude  form  of  the  English  language,  as  it  is  spoken  by 
the  uneducated  everywhere,  without  reference  to  pro- 
vincial idioms,  might  possibly  bo  the  best  medium.  It 
offers,  at  least,  the  advantage  of  simplicity,  of  a  direct- 
ness of  expression  which  overlooks  grammatical  rules, 
of  natural  pathos,  even, — and  therefore,  so  far  as  these 
traits  go,  may  reproduce  them  without  detracting  seri- 
ously from  the  original.  Those  other  qualities  of  the 
poems  which  spring  from  the  character  of  the  people 
of  whom  and  for  whom  they  were  written  must  de- 
pend, for  their  recognition,  on  the  sympathetic  insight 
of  the  reader*  We  can  only  promise  him  the  utmost 
fidelity  in  the  translation,  having  taken  no  other  lib* 
erty  than  the  substitution  of  common  idiomatic  phrases, 
peculiar  to  oUr  language,  for  corresponding  phrases  in 
the  other.  The  original  metre,  in  every  instance,  has 
been  strictly  adhered  to. 

The  poems,  only  fifty-nine  in  number,  consist  prin- 
cipally of  sliort  songs  or  pastorals,  and  narratives.  The 
latter  are  written   in   hexameter,  but  are  by  no  means 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  67 

classic  in  form.  It  is  a  rough,  irregular  metre,  in  whicli 
the  trochees  preponderate  over  the  dactyls:  many  of 
the  lines,  in  fact,  would  not  bear  a  critical  scansion. 
We  have  not  scnipled  to  imitate  this  irregularity,  as  not 
inconsistent  with  the  plain,  ungrammatical  speech  of 
the  characters  introduced,  and  the  homely  air  of  even 
the  most  imaginative  passages.  The  opening  poem  is 
a  charmingly  wayward  idyl,  called  "  The  Meadow,"  {Die 
Wieae^  the  name  of  a  mountain-stream,  which,  rising 
in  the  Feldberg,  the  highest  peak  of  the  Black  Forest, 
flows  past  Hansen,  Ilebers  early  homo,  on  its  way  to 
the  Ehino.  An  extract  from  it  will  illustrate  what 
Jean  Paul  calls  the  "hazardous  boldness"  of  Hobel's 
personifications : — 


Beautiful  **  Meadow,"  daughter  o*  Feldberg,  I  welcome  and 

greet  you. 
Listen  :  I'm  goin*  to  sing  a  song,  and  all  in  y'r  honor, 
^lakin'  a  music  beside  ye,  foUerin'  wherever  you  wander. 
Bom  unbeknown  in  the  rocky,  hidden  heart  o'  the  mountain, 
Suckled  0*  clouds  and  fogs,  and  weaned  by  the  waters  o* 

heaven. 
There  you  slep'  like  a  babblin*  baby,  a-kep^  in  the  bed-room, 
Secret,  and  tenderly  cared-for :   and  eye  o*  man  never  saw 

you,— 
Never  peeked  through  a  key-hole  and  saw  my  little  girl  sleepin* 
Sound  In  her  chamber  o*  crystal,  rocked  in  her  cradle  o*  silver, 
Neither  an  ear  o*  man  ever  listened  to  hear  her  a-breathin\ 
Ko,  nor  her  voice  all  alone  to  herself  a-laughin*  or  cryin*. 


08  £SSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 

Only  the  close  little  ipirits  that  know  erery  passage  and  en- 
trance, 
In  and  out  dodging  they  brought  ye  up  and  teached  ye  to 

toddle, 
Qov*  you  u  cheerful  nntur\  and  larnt  you  how  to  bo  useful ) 
Yes,  and  their  words  did  n*t  go  into  one  ear  and  out  at  the 

t'other. 
Stand  on  your  slippery  feet  as  soon  as  may  be,  and  use  *cm, 
That  you  do,    as   you   slyly  creep  from   your   chamber   o* 

cryntivl 
Out  0*  doors,  barefoot,  and  sc^ulnt  up  to  lioaven,  mischievously 

smilin*. 
Oh,  but  you  Ve  pretty,  my  dArlin\  yV  eyes  have  a  beautiful 

sparkle ! 
Is  n't  it  nice,  out  o*  doors  ?  you  did  n't  guess  ^t  was  so  pleasant  t 
Listen,  the  leaves  is  rustlin*,  and  listen,  the  birdies  a-singin'  I 
"Yes,"  says  you,   "but  I'm  goln'  furder,  and  can't  stay  to 

hear 'm  : 
Pleasant,  truly,  's  my  way,  and  more  so  the  furder  I  travel" 

Only  see  how  spry  my  little  one  Is  at  her  jumpin'  1 

"  Ketch  me  !  *'  she  shouts,  in  her  fun, — **lf  you  want  me,  foUer 

and  ketch  me  I  '* 
Every  minute  she  turns  and  jumps  in  another  direction. 
There,  you'll  fall  from  the  bank  I    You  see,  she's  done  It :  t 

said  so. 
Did  n't  I  say  it  ?    And  now  she  wobbles  furder  and  furder, 
Creepin'  along  on  all-fours,  then  off  on  her  legs  she  's  a-tod« 

dlin',— 
Blips  in  the  bushes,-^"  Hunt  me  )  '*^4&nd  there,  on  a  sudden,  she 

peeks  out. 
"Wait,  I  'm  a-comin' !    Back  o'  the  trees  I  hear  her  a-callin'  i 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  69 

« Guess  where  I  am  1 " — she  's  whims  of  her  own,  a  plenty,  and 
keeps  'em. 

But,  as  you  go,  you  *re  growin'  hnn'somer,  bigger,  and  stronger. 

Where  the  breath  o'  y'r  breathin*  falls,  the  meadows  is  £T"eener, 

Fresher  o'  color,  right  and  left,  and  the  weeds  and  the  grasses 

Sprout  up  as  juicy  as  mn  be,  and  posies  o'  loveliest  colors 

Blossom  as  brightly  as  wink,  and  bees  come  and  suck  'em. 

Water- wagtails  come  tilting — and,  look  I  there  's  the  geese  o' 
tlie  village  1 

All  are  a-comin  to  see  you,  and  all  want  to  give  you  a  welcome  ; 

Yes,  and  you  Ve  kind  o'  heart,  and  you  prattle  to  all  of  'em 
kindly  : 

"Come,  you  well-behaved  creeturs,  eat  and  drink  what  I  bring 
you,— 

I  must  be  oil  and  away :  God  bless  you,  wcU-bchayed  cree- 
turs I"*  • 


*  At  the  reader  of  Gcrmnn  may  be  cuHons  to  see  a  dpoclmcn  of  the  original  we 
give  this  l«»t  paflsatro,  which  contnlnt,  In  a  brief  compass,  many  distlDCtlve  features 
of  tbe  Alemannic  dialect  >— 

*•  Ncl  so  lucg  me  doch,  wl  cha  ml  Mciddell  ppringo  I 

*  Chnnnfich  ml  ubcr,*  scite  nnd  lacht,  *nnd  witt  me,  se  hoi  ml  I  * 
Air  wil  en  andcre  Wcg,  und  alH>viI  andcri  Sprungli  I 

Fall  mer  nit  pel  Rcinli  ab  I— Do  hemmer's,  1  sags  lo— 
Hani's  denn  nit  gfclt  ?    Doch  gauckelct's  witers  nnd  wltera, 
Groblct  uf  allc  Viercn,  nnd  etellt  si  wicder  nf  d'  Beinll, 
Bchlleft  in  d'  Hurst— iez  such  mer's  eis  I— dort  guggciet's  use. 
Wart,  1  chnmm  I    Drnf  ruefts  mer  Mricdcr  hinter  de  Baome  t 

•  Roth  wo  bin  1  iez  1  '—und  bet  si  urige  Phatcst. 

Aber  wlc  de  goech.  wirsch  sichtll  grosser  and  sch6ner. 

Wo  di  liebligcn  Othem  wciht,  se  farbt  si  der  Ease 

Oriiener  rechts  nnd  links,  cs  stohn  In  saftige  Trlcbe 

Gras  nnd  Chriiter  nf ,  cs  etohn  In  frischere  Gstalte 

Farbigi  Blucmll  do,  und  d'  Immli  ch&mmen  nnd  snge. 

*S  Wassorstclzll  chnmmt,  nnd  laeg  doch,  *■  Wall  vo  TodtnAU  t 

AUes  will  dl  bschauen,  nnd  Alles  will  di  bigrttue, 

Und  dl  frttndlig  Hen  git  alle  frfindligi  Rede ; 

*Ohdmmet  Ihr  ordlige  Thierli,  do  bonder,  esset  nnd  trinket  I 

Witen  goht  ml  Weg,  Osegott,  ihr  ordlige  Tblerli  1  *  '* 


i 

70  £SSA  rS  AND  NOTES. 

The  poet  follows  the  stream  through  her  whole 
course,  never  dropping  the  figure  which  is  adapted, 
with  infinite  adroitness,  and  with  the  play  of  a  fancy 
as  wayward  and  unrestrained  as  her  own  waters,  to  all 
her  changing  aspects.  Beside  the  Catholic  chapel  of 
Fair-Beeches  she  pauses  to  listen  to  the  mass;  but  far- 
ther down  the  valley  becomes  an  apostate,  and  attends 
the  Lutheran  service  in  the  Ilusemer  church.  Stronger 
and  statelier  grown,  she  trips  along  with  the  step  of  a 
maiden  conscious  of  her  own  beauty,  and  the  poet 
clothes  her  in  the  costume  of  an  Alemannic  bride, 
with  a  green  kirtle  of  a  hundred  folds,  and  a  stomach- 
er of  Milan  gauze,  "like  a  loose  cloud  on  a  morning 
sky  in  spring-time.'*  Thus  equipped,  she  wanders  at 
will  over  the  broader  meadows,  around  the  feet  of  vine- 
yard-hills, visits  villages  and  churches,  or  stops  to  gossip 
with  the  lusty  young  millers.  But  the  woman's  destiny 
is  before  her;  she  cannot  escape  it;  and  the  time  is 
drawing  near  when  her  wild,  singing,  pastoral  being 
shall  be  absorbed  in  that  of  the  strong  male  stream, 
the  bright-eyed  son  of  the  Alps,  who  has  come  so  far 
to  woo  and  win  her. 


Daughter  o'  Feldberg,  half-and-half  I've  got  a  suspicion 

How  aa  you  Ve  virtues,  and  faults  enough  now  to  choose  ye  a 

husband. 
Castin'  y'r  eyes  dowa,  ore  you  ?    Pickin*  and  pUttln'  y*r  rib- 
bons ? 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS.  71 

Doij'i  be  80  fooUfib,  wencb  !— Sbe  tbinks  I  know  nothin'  about 

it, 
How  sbe's  a'ready  engageti,  and  eacb  is  a-waitin*  for  t*  otber. 
Don't  I  know  him,  my  darlin',  the   lusty  young  fellow,  y'r 

sweetheart  ? 

Over  powerful  rocks,  and  through  the  hedges  and  thickets. 
Right  away  from  the  snowy  Swiss  mountains  he  plunges  at 

Rheineck 
Down  to  the  lake,  and  straight  ahead  swims  through  it  to  Con- 
stance, 
Sayin^ :  '*  'T  's.no  use  o*  talking  TU  have  the  gal  Fm  engaged 

tol" 
But,  as  he  reaches  Stein,  he  goes  a  little  more  slowly, 
Leavin'  the  lake  where  he  'a  decently  washed  his  feet  and  his 

body. 
Dicssenhofcn  don't  please  him, — no,  nor  the  convent  beside  it« 
For'ard  he  goes  to  Schaffhausen,  onto  the  rocks  at  the  corner  ; 
There  he  says  :  '*It  's  no  use  o'  talkin'.  Til  git  to  my  sweet- 
heart ! 
Body  and  life  I  '11  stake,  cravat  and  embroidered  suspenders.^* 
Woop  t  but  ho  jumps  t    And  now  he  talks  to  hisself,  goin* 

furder, 
Giddy,  belike,  in  his  head,  but  pushes  for'ard  to  Rheinau, 
Eglisau,  and  Kaiserstuhl,  and  Zurzach,  and  Waldshut,--> 
All  are  behind  him,  passin'  one  village  after  another 
Down  to  Grenzach,  and  out  on  the  broad  and  beautiful  bottoms 
Kigh  unto  Basle  ;  and  there  he  must  stop  and  look  after  his 
license. 


72  ESSAYS  ANb  NOTES. 

Look  t  is  n^t  that  y  V  bridegroom  a-comln*  down  yonder  to  meet 

you  f— 
Tcfl,  it  ^8  him,  it  *s  him,  I  hear  *t,  for  his  voice  is  so  jolly  t 
Yes,  it  *8  him,  it  *s  him,  with  his  eyes  as  blue  as  the  heavens, 
With  his    Swiss  kaee-breeches  o*  green,    and  suspenders  o* 

velvet, 
"With  his  shirt  o*  the  color  o*  pearl,  and  buttons  o'  crystal, 
With  his  powerful  loins,  and  his  sturdy  back  and  his  shoulders, 
Grand  in  his  gait,  commanding  beautiful,  free  in  his  motions, 
Proud    as  a  Basle    Councilman, — yes,   it  's   the  big  boy  o* 

Gothard  I  ♦ 

The  daring  with  which  Hebel  countrifies  (or,  rather 
fa/rmerlze%^  to  translate  Goethe's  word  more  literally)  the 
spirit  of  natural  objects,  carrying  his  personifications  to 
that  point  whore  the  imaginative  borders  on  the  gro- 
tesque, is  perhaps  his  strongest  characteristic.  Ilis  poetic 
faculty,  putting  on  its  Alcmannio  costume,  seems  to 
abdicate  all  ambition  of  moving  in  a  higher  sphere  of 
society,  but  within  the  bounds  it  has  chosen  allows  itself 
the  utmost  range  of  capricious  enjoyment.  In  another 
pastoral,  called  "The  Oatmeal  Porridge,*'  he  takes  the 
grain  which  the  peasant  has  sown,  makes  it  a  sentient 
creature)  and  carries  it  through  the  processes  of  gennina- 
tion,  growth,  and  bloom,  without  once  dropping  the 
figure  or  introducing  an  incongruous  epithet.  It  is  not 
only  a  child,  but  a  child  of  the  Black  Forest,  uttering 
its  hopes,  its  anxieties,  and  its  joys  in  the  familiar  dia- 

*  The  Rhine. 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  73 

lect.  The  beetle,  in  his  eyes,  becomes  a  gross,  hard 
headed  boor,  carrying  his  sacks  of  blossom-meal,  and 
drinking  his  mug  of  XX  morning-dew;  the  stork  pa- 
rades about  to  show  his  red  stockings;  the  spider  is  at 
once  machinist  and  civil  engineer;  and  even  the  sun, 
the  moon  and  the  moniing-star  are  not  secure  from 
the  poet's  familiarities.  In  his  pastoral  of  "The  Field- 
Watchman,"  ho  ventures  to  say, — 

blister  Schoolmaster  Moon,   with  y*r    forehead  wrinkled   with 

teaching 
With  -fx  fftce  full  o'  larnin',  a  plaster  stuck  on  y'r  cheek-bone, 
Say,  do  y'r  children  mind  ye,   and  lam  their  psalm  and  their 

texes  ? 

We  much  fear  that  this  over-quaintness  of  fancy,  to 
which  the  Alomannio  dialect  gives  such  a  racy  flavor, 
and  whicli  belongs,  in  a  less  degree,  to  the  minds 
of  the  people  who  speak  that  dialect,  cannot  be  success- 
fully clothed  in  an  English  dress.  Let  us  try,  therefore, 
a  little  poem,  the  sentiment  whereof  is  of  tmiversal 
application : — 

THE  CONTENTED  FARRIER. 

I  GUESS  I  Ul  take  my  pouch,  and  fill 

My  pipe  just  once,— yes,  that  I  will  I  * 

Turn  out  my  plough  and  homewards  go  i 

Bwk  thinks,  enough  ^s  been  done,  I  know. 


f  I      ■ 

74  £SSA  yS  AND  NOTES. 

Why,  when  the  Emperor^s  council  *•  done^ 
And  he  can  hunt,  and  have  his  fun, 
He  stops,  I  guess,  at  any  tree. 
And  fills  his  pipe  as  well  as  me. 

But  smokin*  does  him  little  good  : 
He  can^t  have  all  things  as  he  would. 
His  crown  's  a  precious  weight,  at  that  : 
It  is  n't  like  my  old  straw  hat. 

He  gits  a  deal  o'  tin,  no  doubt,    • 
But  all  the  more  he  pays  it  out ; 
And  everywheres  they  beg  and  cry 
Heaps  more  than  he  can  satisfy. 

And  when,  to  see  that  nothln'  \  wrong, 
He  plagues  hisself  the  whole  day  long, 
And  thinks,  "I  guess  I've  fixed  it  now,'V 
Nobody  thanks  him,  anyhow. 

And  so  when  in  his  bloody  clones 
The  Gineral  out  o'  battle  goes, 
He  takes  his  pouch,  too,  I'll  agree. 
And  fills  his  pipe  as  well  as  me. 

But  in  the  wild  and  dreadfle  fight, 
His  pipe  don't  taste  ezackly  right  i 
He  *8  galloped  here  and  galloped  there. 
And  things  a'n't  pleasant,  anywhere. 

And  slch  a  cursin' :  "Thunder  ! "  ••  Hell ! 
And  "Devil  ! "  (worse  nor  I  can  tell :) 
His  grannydiers  in  blood  lay  down, 
And  yonder  smokes  a  bumin'  town. 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS.         ^  76 

And  when,  a-travelin*  to  the  Fairs,  , 

The  merchant  goes  with  all  his  wares. 
He  t^ikes  a  pouch  o'  the'  best,  I  guess, 
And  fills  and  smokes  his  pi^x),  no  less. 

Poor  devil,  't  is  n't  good  for  you  I 
With  all  y'r  gold,  you  've  trouble  too. 
Twice  two  is  four,  if  stocks  '11  rise  ; 
I  see  the  figgers  in  your  eyes. 

It  *8  hurry,  worry,  tare  and  tret ; 
Ye  ha'n't  enough,  the  more  ye  get,— 
And  could  n't  use  it,  if  ye  had  : 
No  wonder  that  y'r  pii)e  tastes  bad  ! 

But  good,  thank  God  I  and  wholesome  's  mine  : 
The  bottom-w^hcat  is  growin'  fine, 
And  God,  o'  momin's,  sends  the  dew, 
And  sends  his  breath  o'  blessin'  too, 

•   And  home,  there's  Nancy  bustlin*  round  : 
The  supper  's  ready,  I  '11  be  bound, 
And  youngsters  waitin*.    Lord  I  I  vow, 
I  dunno  which  is  smartest  now. 

My  pipe  tastes  good  ;  the  reason  's  plain  t 
(I  guess  I  'U  fill  it  once  again  :) 
With  cheerful  heart,  and  jolly  mood, 
And  goin'  home,  all  things  is  good, 

Hebel's  narrative  poems  abound  with  the  wayward 
pranks  of  a  fancy  which  seems  a  little  too  restive  to  be 
entirely  controlled  by  his  artistic  sense ;  but  they  possess 


'     .  I      '  I 

I 

76  JSSSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

much  dramatto  truth  and  power.  He  delights  in  the 
Bupematural  element,  but  approaches  it  from  the  gentler 
human  side.  In  "The  Carbuncle"  only,  we  find  some- 
thing of  that  weird,  uncanny  atmosphere  which  casts  its 
glamor  around  the  "Tam  O'  Shanter'*  of  Bums.  A 
more  satisfactory  illustration  of  his  peculiar  qualities  is 
"  The  Ghost's  Visit  on  the  Feldberg," — a  story  told  by  a 
loafer  of  Basle  to  a  group  of  beer-drinkers  in  the  tavern 
at  Todtnau,  a  little  village  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
This  is,  perhaps,  the  most  popular  of  HebeVs  poems, 
and  we  therefore  translate  it  entire.  The  superstition 
that  a  child  born  on  Sunday  has  the  power  of  seeing 
spirits  is  universal  among  the  German  peasantry. 

THE   GHOST'S  VISIT  ON  THE  FELDBERG. 

Hark  yc,  fellows  o*  Todtnau,  if  ever  I  told  you  the  Scythe- 
Ghost* 
Was  a  spirit  of  Evil,  I  Ve  now  got  a  different  story. 
Out  of  the  town  am  I,-— yes,  that  I'll  honestly  own  to, — 
Related  to  merchants,  at  seven  tables  free  to  take  pot-luck. 
But  I  'm  a  Sunday's  child  ;  and  wherever  the  ghosts  at  the  cross* 

roads 
Stand  in  the  air,  in  vaults,  and  cellars,  and  out-o'-way  places,** 
Guardin'  hidden  money  witli  eyes  like  fiery  sauce-pans, 
Washin'  with  bitter  tears  the  spot  where  somebody  's  murdered^ 
Shovellin'  the    dirt,   and    scratchin'  it  over  with    nails  all  so 
bloody,— 

*  DengU'OtUt,  literally,  '' Whettittg-Sptrit/*  The  exact  meaning  of  dengdn  It 
to  sharpen  a  ecythu  by  hammering  the  edge  of  the  blade,  which  wa*  practiced  be- 
fore whetatones  came  in  aaei 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS.  77 

Clear  as  day  I  can   eee,  when  it  lightens.     Ugh  I  how   they 

whimper  t 
Also,  whenever  with  beautiful  blue  eyes  the  heavenly  angels, 
Deep  in  the  night,  in  silent,  sleepin'  villages  wander, 
Peekin'  in  at  the  windows,  and  talkin'  together  so  pleasant, 
Smilin'  one  at  the  toother,  and  settin*  outside  o*  the  house-doors, 
So  that  the  pious  folks  shall  take  no  harm  while  they  're  sleepin*: 
Then  ag'in,  when  in  couples  or  threes  they  walk  in  the  grave- 
yard, 
Talkin'  in  this  like  i  ''There  a  faithful  mother  is  layln' ; 
And  here  's  a  man  that  was  poor,  but  took  no  advantage  o*  no 

one  : 
Take  your  rest,  for  you  're  tired, — ^we  '11  waken  yo  up  when  the 

time  comes  I " 
Clearly  I  see  by  the  light  o'  the  stars,  and  I  hear  them  a-talkin'. 
Many  I  know  by  their  names,  and  speak  to,  whenever  I  meet  'em, 
Give  'em  the  time  o'  day,  and  ask  'em,  and  answer  their  questions, 
♦*How  do  ye  do?"     ''How  's  y'r  watch?"     "Praise  God,  it 's 

tolerable,  thank  you  I " 
Believe  it,  or  not  I    Well,  once  on  a  time  my  cousin,  he  sent  me 
Over  to  Todtnau,  on   business  with   all  sorts  o'  troublesome 

people, 
Where  you  've  coffee  to  drink,  and  biscuit  they  give  you  to  soak 

in't. 
**  Don't  you  stop  on  the  road,  nor  gabble  whatever  comes  fore* 

most," 
Hooted  my  cousin  at  startin',  ''  nor  don't  you  let  go  o'  your  snuff- 
box, 
Leavin'  it  round  in  the  tavern,  as  gentlemen  do,  for  the  next 

time." 
Up  and  away  I  went,  and  all  that  my  cousin  he  'd  ordered 
Fairly  and  squarely  I  fixed.'    At  the  sign  o'  the  Eagle  in  Todtnau 


78  BSSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

Set  for  a  while ;  then,  sure  o*  my  way,  tramped  off  agHn,  home> 
*ard8,' 

Nigh  by  the  village,  treckonedt — ^but  found  myself  climbln*  the 

Feldberg, 
Lured  by  the  birdies,  and  down  by  the  brooka  the  beautiful 

posies  t 
That  ^s  a  weakness  o'  mine, — I  run  like  a  fool  after  such  things. 
Now  it  was  dusk,  and  the  birdies  hushed  up,  sittin*  still  on  the 

branches. 
Hither  and  yonder  a  starlie  stuck  its  head  through  the  darkness, 
Peekin'  out,  as  oncertain  whether  the  sun  was  in  bed  yet, — 
Whether  it  might  n^t  come,  and  called  to  the  other  ones  :  '*Come 

now  I " 
Then  I  knowed  I  was  lost,  and  laid  myself  down, — I  was  weary  : 
There,  you  know,  there  ^s  a  hut,  and  I  found  an  armful  o^  straw 

in  't. 
**  Here  *8  a  go  I "  I  thinks  to  myself,  *'  and  1  wish  I  was  safely 
Cuddled  in  bed  to  home; — or  ^t  was  midnight,  and  some  little 

spirit 
Somewhere  popped  out,  as  o*  nights  when  it  *§  twelve  they  *re 

accustomed, 
Passin*  the  time  with  me,  friendly,  till  winds  that  blow  early  o* 

mornings 
Blow  out  the  heavenly  lights,  and  I  see  the  way  back  to  the 

Villnge.** 
Xow,  as  thlnkin*  in  this  like,  I  felt  all  over  my  watch-face, — 
Dark  as  pitch  all  around, — and  felt  with  my  finger  the  hour- 
hand, 
Found  it  was  nigh  onto  Ueven,  and  hauled  my  pipe  from  my 

pocket, 
Thinkin' :  "Maybe  a  bit  of  a  smoke  'll  keep  me  from  snoozin* : *• 
Thunder  1  all  of  a  sudden  beside  me  was  two  of  *em  talking 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS.  70 

Like  a*  they  *d  business  together  I    You  'd  better  believe  that  I 

listened. 
**Say,  a'n't  I  late  a-comin'  ?    Because  there  was,  over  in  Mam- 
bach, 
Dyin*,  a  girl  with  pains  in  the  bones  and  terrible  fever  : 
Now,  but  she  's  easy  I  I  held  to  her  mouth  the  drink  o'  departure, 
So  that  the  sufferin'  ceased,  and  softly  lowered  the  eyelids. 
Say  in*  :  *  Sleep,  and  in  peace,— I  '11  waken  thee  up  wheu  tho 

time  comes  I  * 
Do  me  the  favor,  brother  :  fetch  in  the  basin  o'  silver 
Water,  ever  so  little  :  my  scythe,  as  you  see,  must  be  whetted.' 
**Whetted?"  says  I  to   myself,   *'and  a  spirit?"  and  peeked 

from  the  window. 
Lo  and  behold,  there  sat  a  youngster  with  wings  that  was  golden; 
White  was  his  mantle,  white,  and  his  girdle  the  color  o'  roses, 
Fair  and  lovely  to  see,  and  beside  him  two  lights  all  a  burnin\ 
"All  the  good  spirits,"  says  I,  "Mr.  Angel,  God  have  you  in 

keepin' 1 " 
"Praise  their  Master,  the  Lord,"  said  the  angel ;  "God  thank 

you,  as  I  do  I " 
"Take  no  offence,  Mr,  Ghost,  and  by  y'r  good  leave  and  per- 
mission. 
Tell  me,  what  have  you  got  for  to  mow  ?"    "  Why,  the  scythe  I " 

was  his  answer. 
"Yes,"  says  I,  "  for  I  see  it ;  and  that  is  my  question  exackly, 
What  you  Ve  goin*  to  do  with  the  scythe."    "  Why,  to  mow  P 

was  his  answer. 
Then  I  ventur'd  to  say  :  "  And  that  is  my  question  exackly. 
What  you  're  goin'  to  mow,  supposin'  you  're  willin'  to  tell  me." 
"  Grass  I    And  what  is  your  business  so  late  up  here  in  the  night* 
time?" 


L 


80  ESSAYS  ANJ>  NOTES. 

" KotWn'  special,"  1  answered  ;  "I  *m  burnln*  a  little  tobacco. 
Lost  my  way,  or  most  likely  I  *d  be  at  the  Eagle,  In  Todtnau. 
But  to  come  to  the  subject,  supposln*  it  is  n't  a  secret, 
Tell  me,  what  do  you  make  o'  the  grass  ? "    And  he  answered 

me  :  "Fodder  1" 
"  Don't  understand  it,''  says  I ;  **  for  the  Lord  has  no  cows  up  in 

heaven." 
*'Not  precisely  a  cow,"  he  remarked,  **but  heifers  and  asset. 
Seest,  up  yonder,  the  star  ? "  and  he  pointed  one  out  with  his 

finger, 
«*  There  's  the  ass  o*  the  Christmas-Child,  and  Fridolin's  heifers,* 
Breathin^  the  starry  air,  and  waitin'  for  gross  that  I  bring  'em  t 
Grass   does  n't  grow  there, — nothin'  grows  but  the  heavenly 

raisins, 
Milk  and  honey  a-runnln'  in  rivers,  plenty  as  water  : 
But   they  're  particular   cattle, — grass  they   must  have   every 

morn  in', 
Mouthfuls  o'  hay,  and  drink  from  earthly  fountains  they  'ro 

used  to. 
Bo  for  them  I  'm  a-whettln*  my  scythe,  and  soon  must  be  mowln*  x 
Would  n't  it  be  worth  while.  If  politely  you  'd  offer  to  help  me  ? " 
8o  the  angel  he  talked,  and  this  way  I  answered  the  angel : 
**Hark  ye,  this  it  Is,  just :  and  I  '11  go  wi'  the  greatest  o'  pleasure. 
Polks  from  the  town  know  nothin'  about  It  i  we  write  and  we 

cipher, 
Reckon  up  money, — that  we  can  do  t— >and  measure  and  weigh 

out) 

Unload,  and  on-lood,  and  eat  and  drink  without  any  trouble. 

All  that  we  want  for  the  belly.  In  kitchen,  pantry,  and  cellar, 

*  AccohUng  to  an  old  le^^nd,  Fridollb  (a  favorite  valnt  with  the  Catholic  popola« 
tton  of  the  Black  Forest)  harnei^sed  two  yoong  heifers  to  a  mighty  flr>tree,  and  hauled 
It  Into  the  Rhine  near  Sacklngen,  thereby  damming  the  river  and  forcing  it  to  tak* 
a  new  coarse,  on  the  other  aide  of  the  town. 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  81 

Comes  in  lots  through  every  gate,  in  baskets  and  boxes, 
Runs  in  every  street,  and  cries  at  every  corner  j 

*  Buy  my  cherries  I  *  and  *  Buy  my  butter  !  *  and  '  Look  at  my 

salad  P 

*  Buy  my  onions  1  *  and  '  Here  's  your  carrots  1  *  and  '  Spinage  and 

parsley  I  * 

*  Lucifer  matches  !    Lucifer  matches  I  *     *  Cabbage  and  turnips  !  * 

*  Here  's  your  umbrellas  1 '     *  Caraway-seed  and  juniper-berries  I 
Cheap  for  cash,  and  all  to  be  traded  for  sugar  and  coffee  I  * 

Say,  Mr.  Angel,  didst  ever  drink  coffee  ?  and  how  do  you  like 

it?'» 
<*  Stop  with  y'r  nonsense  I "  then  he  said,  but  he  could  n't  help 

laughin* ; 
**No,  wo  drink  but  the  heavenly  air,  and  eat  nothin*  but  raialci. 
Four  on  a  day  o^  the  week,  and  afterwards  five  on  a  Sunday. 
Come,  if  you  want  to  go  with  me,  now,  for  I  'm  off  to  my  mowin*. 
Back  o*  Todtnau,  there  on  the  grassy  holt  by  the  highway," 
<*  Yes,  Mr,  Angel,  that  will  I  truly,  seein*  you  're  willin*  i 
Seems  to  me  that  it 's  cooler  :  give  me  yV  scythe  for  to  carry  : 
Here  *s  a  pipe  and  a  pouch, — you  're  welcome  to  smoke,  if  yew 

want  to." 
While  I  was  talkin*,  "Poohoo  1 "  cried  the  angel.    A  fiery  man 

stood, 
Quicker  than  lightnin*,  beside  me.     **  Light  us  the  way  to  the 

village  ! ' 
Said  he.    And  truly  before  us  marched,  a-bumln*,  the  Poohop, 
Over  stock  and  rock,  through  the  bushes,  a  trarellin*  torch- 
light. 
«Handy,  U  n't  it?'*  laughing  the  angel  said.— "What  are  ye 

,  doin»  f 
Why  do  you  nick  at  y'r  flint  ?    Tou  can  light  ft  pipe  at  the 

Poohoo, 


82  ESSAYS   ASD    NOTES. 

tJee  him  Mrheneyeir  you  like ;  but  It  seems  to  me  you  Ve  a-fright* 

ened,— ' 
Tou,  and  a  Sunday^s  child,  as  you  are  :  do  you  think  he  will  bite 

you?" 
"NO)  he  ha*n*t  bit  me  ;  but  this  you  *11  allow  me  to  say,  Hr. 

Angel,— 
Half-and-half  I  mistrust  him  \  besides,  my  tobacco  *s  a-bumin\ 
That  ^s  a  weakness  o*  mine, — ^I  'm  afeard  o*  them  fiery  creeturs  : 
Give  me  seventy  angels,  instead  o^  this  big  bumin*  devil  t " 
**  Really,  it 's  dreadfle,"  the  angel  says  he,  "that  men  Is  so  silly, 
Fearful  o*  ghosts  and  spectres,  and  skeery  without  any  reason. 
Two  of  *cm  only  is  dangerous,  two  of  'em  hurtful  to  mankind  t 
One  of  *em  's  known  by  the  name  o*  Delusion,  and  Worry  the' 

t'other. 
Him,  Delusion,  's  a  dweller  in  Wine  :  from  cans  and  decanters 
Up  to  the  head  he  rises,  and  turns  your  sense  to  confusion. 
This  is  the  ghost  that  leads  you  astray  in  forest  and  highway  t 
Undermost,  uppermost,  hither  and  yon  the  ground  is  a-roUin', 
Bridges  bendin',  and  mountains  movin*,  and  everything  double. 
Hark  ye,  keep  out  of  his  way  !  ♦*    *'  Aha  I "  I  says  to  the  angel, 
"There  you  prick  me,  but  not  to  the  blood  :  I  see  what  you  're 

after, 
Sober  am  I,  as  a  Judge.    To  be  sure,  I  emptied  my  tankard 
Once,  at  the  Eagle,-— <m<»,— and  the  landlord  '11  tell  you  the  same 

thing, 
S'posin'  you  doubt  me.    And  now,  pray,  tell  me  who  is  the 

t'other?" 
**  Who  is  the  t'other  ?    Don't  know  without  askin'  ?  *♦  answered 

the  angel. 
*♦  He  's  a  terrible  ghost :  the  Lord  forbid  you  should  meet  him  I 
When  you  waken  early,  at  foiu*  or  five  in  the  momin', 
There  he  stands  a-waitin'  with  bumin*  eyes  at  y'r  bed-side, 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  83 

Gives  you  the  time  o*  day  with  blazin*  switches  and  pinchers  : 
Even  prayin'  don't  help,  nor  helps  all  your  Ate  Marias! 
When  you  begin  'em,  he  takes  your  jaws  and  claps  'em  together  ; 
Look  to  heaven,  he  comes  and  blinds  y'r  eyes  with  his  ashes  ; 
Be  you  hungry,  and  eat,  he  pizons  y'r  soup  with  his  wormwood  ; 
Take  you  a  drink  o'  nights,  he  squeezes  gall  in  the  tankard  ; 
Run  like  a  stag,  he  follows  as  close  on  y'r  trail  as  a  blood-hound ; 
Creep  like  a  shadow,  he  whispers  :  'Good  1  we  had  best  take  it 

easy'  ; 
Kneels  at  y'r  side  in  the  chuiy:h,  and  seta  at  y'r  side  in  the 

tavern. 
Go  wherever  you  will,  there  'i  ghosts  a-hovcrin'  round  you.  * 

Shut  your  eyes  in  y*r  bed,  they  mutter  ;  *  There  *8  no  need  of 

hurry ; 
By-and-by  you  can  sleep,  but  listen  !  we  've  somcthin'  to  tell  youj 
Have  you  forgot  how  you  stolcd?  and  how  you  cheated  the 

orphans  ? 
Secretly  sinned  ? ' — and  this,  and  the  t'other ;  and  when  they 

have  finished, 
Bay  it  over  ag'in,  and  you  get  little  good  o'  your  slumber." 
80  the  angel  he  talked,  and,  like  iron  under  the  hammer. 
Sparkled  and  spirted  the  Poohoo.     **  Surely,"  I  says  to  the  angel, 
**Born  on  a  Sunday  was  I,  and  friendly  with  many  a  preacher, 
Yet  the  Father  protect  me  from  these  I "  Says  ho  to  me,  smilin's 
*'  Keep  y'r  conscience  pure ;  it  is  better  than  crossin'  and  blessin*. 
Here  we  must  part,  for  y'r  way  turns  off  and  down  to  the  village* 
Take  the  Poohoo  along,  but  mind  I  put  him  out,  In  the  meadow. 
Lest  he  should  run  in  the  village,  settin'  fire  to  the  stables. 
God  be  with  you,  and  keep  you  I "    And  then  says  I :  "  Mr. 

Angel, 
God,  the  Father,  protect  you  1    Be  sure,  when  you  come  to  the 
city, 


84  MSSAYS  AI/D  NOTES. 

»  .     ■  ■  ^ 

Christmas  evenin*,  call,  and  I  '11  hold  it  an  honor  to  see  yon  t    ' 

Raisins  I  *11  have  at  your  service,  and  hippocras,  if  you  like  it. 

Chilly  *8  the  air,  o*  evenin's,  especially  down  by  the  river.  ♦» 

Day  was  breakin*  by  this,  and  right  there  was  Todtnau  before 
me  t 

Past,  and  onward  to  Basle  I  wandered,  T  the  shade  and  the  cool- 
ness. 

When  into  Mambach  I  come,  they  bore  a  dead  girl  to  the  grave- 
yard, 

After  the  Holy  Cross,  and  the  faded  banner  o'  Heaven, 

With  the  funeral  garlands  upon  her,  with  sobin*  and  weepln*. 

Ah,  but  she  *d  heard  what  he  said  t  he  *ll  waken  her  up  when 
the  time  comes. 

Afterwards,  Tuesday  it  was,  I  got  safely  back  to  my  cousin  ; 

But  it  turned  out  as  he  said, — Fd  somewhere  forgotten  my  snufl- 

4  box  t 


In  this  poem  the  hero  of  the  story  unconscionsly  de- 
scribes himself  by  his  mamier  of  telling  it, — a  reflective 
action  of  the  dramatic  faculty,  which  Browning,  among 
living  poets,  possesses  in  a  marked  degree.  The  "moral" 
is  so  skilfully  inwoven  into  the  substance  of  the  narra- 
tive as  to  conceal  the  appearance  of  design,  and  the 
reader  haa  swallowed  the  pill  before  its  sugar-coating  of 
fancy  haa  dissolved  in  his  mouth.  There  are  few  of 
HebePs  poems  which  were  not  written  for  the  purpose 
of  inculcating  some  wholesome  lesson,  but  in  none  does 
this  object  prominently  appear.  Even  where  it  is  not 
merely  implied,  but  directly  expressed,  he  contrives  to 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  85 

give  it  the  air  of  having  been  accidentallj  snggested 
by  the  theme.  In  the  following,  which  is  the  most 
pointedly  didactic  of  all  his  productions,  the  character- 
istic fancy  still  betrays  itself;— 


THE    GUIDE-POST. 

D*  TB  know  the  road  to  th*  barU  o*  flour  ? 

At  break  o*  day  let  down  the  bars, 
And  plough  y*r  wheat-field,  hour  by  hour, 

Till  sundown,— yc8,  till  shine  o^  stars. 

You  peg  away,  tho  livelong  day, 
Nor  loaf  about,  nor  gape  around ; 

And  that  's  the  road  to  the  thrashing-floor, 
And  into  the  kitchen,  I  Ul  be  bound  I 

D*  ye  know  the  road  where  dollars  lays  I 
Follow  the  red  cents,  here  and  there  ; 

For  if  a  man  leaves  them,  I  guess, 
He  won't  find  dollars  anywhere.^ 

D*  ye  know  the  road  to  Sunday's  rest  t 
Jist  don't  o'  week-days  be  afeard  ; 

In  field  and  workshop  do  y'r  best, 
And  Sunday  comes  itself,  I  've  heerd« 

On  Saturdays  It  *s  not  fur  off, 
And  brings  a  basketful  o*  cheer,— 

A  roast,  and  lots  o*  garden-stuff, 
And,  like  as  not,  a  jug  o*  beer  I 


86  BSSAYJS  A^D  NOTES. 

D*  ye  know  the  road  to  poverty! 

Turn  in  at  any  tavern-sJgn : 
Torn  in^-^it  *b  temptin*  as  can  be  t 

There  *s  bran**new  cards  and  liquor  fine. 

In  the  last  tavern  there  ^s  a  sack, 
And,  when  the  cash  yV  pocket  quits, 

Jlst  hang  the  wallet  on  yV  back,— 
You  vagabond  t  see  how  it  fits  t 

ty  ye  know  what  road  to  honor  leads. 
And  good  old  age  f — a  lovely  sight  t 

By  ways  o*  temperance,  honest  deeds, 
And  tryin'  to  do  y'r  dooty  right. 

And  when  the  road  forks,  ary  side, 
And  you^re  in  doubt  which  one  it  is, 

Stand  still,  and  let  y'r  conscience  guide  ; 
Thank  God,  it  can^t  lead  much  amisB  t 

And  now,  the  road  to  church-yard  gate 

You  need  n't  ask  !    Go  anywhere  I 
For,  whether  roundabout  or  straight, 

All  roads,  at  last,  '11  bring  you  there. 

Go,  fearin'  God,  but  Ibvin*  more  1— 
I  've  tried  to  be  an  honest  guide,—* 

You  '11  find  the  grave  has  got  a  door, 
And  somcthin'  for  you  t'other  side. 

TTo  could  linger  much  longer  over  our  simple,  braye 

'old  poet,  were  we  sure  of  the  ability  of  the  reader  approx* 

imately  to  distinguish  his  features  through  the  veil  of 

translation*    In  turning  the  leaves  of  the  smoky  book, 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS.  87 

with  its  coarse  paper  and  rude  type, — ^which  suggests  to 
us,  by-the-by,  the  fact  that  Hebel  was  accustomed  to 
hang  a  book,  which  ho  wished  especially  to  enjoy,  in  the 
chimney,  for  a  few  days, — we  are  tempted  by  **The 
Market-Women  in  Town,"  by  "The  Mother  on  Christ- 
mas-Eve," "The  Morning-Star,"  and  the  charming  fairy- 
story  of  "Kiedliger's  Daughter,"  but  must  be  content  to 
close  our  specimens,  for  the  present,  with  a  song  of  love, 
*— "JETofw  und  Yermey^ — ^under  the  equivalent  title  of 

JACK  AND  MAGQIE. 

There  ^s  only  ono  I  'm  after, 

And  she  *8  the  one,  I  vow  I 
If  the  was  here,  and  standin*  by, 
She  is  a  gal  so  neat  and  spry, 
So  neat  and  spry, 

I  ^d  be  in  glory  now  t 

It  *s  so, — ^I  *m  hankerin*  for  her, 

And  want  to  have  her,  too. 
Her  temper  *s  always  gay  and  bright, 
Her  face  like  posies  red  and  white, 
Both  red  and  white, 

And  eyes  like  posies  blue. 

And  when  I  see  her  comin*. 

My  face  gits  red  at  once  ; 
My  heart  feels  chokin*-like,  and  weak, 
And  drops  o^  sweat  run  down  my  cheek, 
Tei,  down  my  cheek,— 

Confound  me  for  a  dunce  1 


88  ESSAYS  AND  irons. 

She  Bpoke  bo  kind,  last  TueBday, 

When  at  the  well  we  met  i 
"  Jack,  give  4  lift  I   .What  ails  you !    Say  I 
I  see  that  somethin*  *s  wrong  to-day  : 
What  *8  wrong  to-day  I  *» 
No,  that  I  can^t  forget  1 

I  know  I  *d  ought  to  tell  her, 

And  wish  I  'd  told  her  then  \ 
And  if  I  was  n*t  poor  and  low, 
And  sayin'  it  did  n^t  choke  me  so, 
(It  chokes  me  so,) 
I  'd  find  a  chance  again. 

Well,  up  and  of!  I  ^m  goin  t 
Bhe  *•  in  the  field  below  t 

I  *11  try  and  let  her  know  my  mind  ; 

And  if  her  answer  is  n*t  kind. 
If  't  is  n't  kind, 
t  '11  jine  the  ranks,  and  go  t 

I  ♦m  but  a  poor  young  fellow, 

Yes,  poor  enough,  no  doubt  t 
But  ha'n't,  thank  Qod,  done  nothin*  wrofig. 
And  be  a  man  as  stout  and  strong, 
As  stout  and  strong, 
As  any  roundabout. 

What 's  rustlin*  in  the  bushes  f 

I  see  a  movin'  stalk  t 
llie  leaves  is  openin'  i  there  's  a  drets  t 
0  Lord,  forbid  it  t  but  I  guess— ^ 
I  guess — ^I  guess 

Somebody  's  heard  me  talk  t 


THE  GERMAN  BURNS,  89 

"Ha !  here  I  am  !  you  ^ve  got  me  t 

So  keep  me,  if  you  can  I 
I  »ve  guessed  it  ever  since  last  Pall, 
And  Tuesday  morn  I  saw  it  all, 
/saw  it  all  1 

Speak  out,  then,  like  a  man  I 

♦*  Though  rich  you  a*n't  in  money. 

Nor  rich  in  goods  to  sell, 
An  honest  heart  is  more  than  gold, 
And  hands  you  Ve  got  for  field  and  fold. 
For  house  and  fold, 

And^Jack — ^I  love  you  well  I  " 

"  0  Maggie,  say  it  over  I 

O  Maggie,  is  it  so  ? 
I  cpuld  nH  longer  bear  the  doubt : 
'T  was  hell, — ^but  now  you  've  drawed  me  out, 
You  've  drawed  me  out  I 

And  will  I?    Fw't  I.  though?" 

The  later  years  of  Hebel's  life  passed  away  quietly 
in  the  circle  of  his  friends  at  Carlsruhe.  After  the 
peculiar  mood  which  called  forth  the  Alemannic  poems 
had  faded  away,  he  seems  to  have  felt  no  further 
temptation  to  pursue  his  literary  success.  His  labors, 
thenceforth,  were  chiefly  confined  to  the  preparation  of 
a  Biblical  History,  for  schools,  and  the  editing  of  the 
^^Bhenish  House-Friend,"  an  illustrated  calendar  for 
the  people,  to  which  he  gave  a  character  somewhat 
•imiliar  to  that   of  Franklin's  "Poor  Richard,"    Hig 


90  JSSSA  YS  Ash  NOTES, 

short,  ptthj  narratireBi  each  with  its  IneTitablOi  tbongh 
unobtrusivo  moral,  aro  modols  of  stylo.  Tho  calendar 
booamo  so  popular,  undor  his  maimgomont,  that  fortjr 
thouBand  copies  wore  annually  printed.  lie  finally  dis« 
continued  his  connection  with  it,  in  1819,  in  conse- 
quence of  on  interference  with  his  articles  on  the  part 
of  tho  censor. 

In  society  Ilebel  was  a  universal  favorite.  Possess- 
ing,  in  his  personal  appearance,  no  less  than  in  his 
intellect,  a  marked  individuality,  he  carried  a  fresh, 
vital,  inspiring  element  into  every  company  which  ho 
visited.  His  cheerfulness  was  inexhaufltiblo,  his  wit 
keen  and  lantbunt  without  being  acrid,  his  speech 
clear,  iluent  and  genial,  and  his  fund  of  anecdote  com- 
mensurate with  his  remarkable  narrative  power*  He  was 
exceedingly  frank,  joyous  and  unconstrained  in  his  de- 
meanor; fond  of  tho  ])ipo  and  tho  beer-gloss;  and  as 
unu  of  his  maxims  wiwt,  *^Not  to  oloso  any  door 
through  wliich  Fortune  might  enter,*'  he  not  only  oc- 
casionally bought  a  lottery-ticket,  but  was  sometimes  to 
be  seen  during  the  season,  at  tho  roulette-tables  of 
Baden-Baden.  One  of  his  friends  declares,  however, 
that  ho  never  obtruded  "the  clergyman"  at  inappro- 
priate times! 

In  person  he  was  of  medium  height,  with  a  body 
of  massive  Teutonic  build,  a  large,  broad  head  in- 
clined a  little  towards  one  shoulder,  the  eyes  small, 
brown     and    mischievously    sparkling,  the   hair    short. 


THE  •  GERMAN  B  URNS,  91 

crisp  aiid  brown,  the  nose  aquiline,  and  the  month 
compressed,  with  the  commencement  of  a  smile  stamped 
in  the  comers.  He  was  careless  in  his  gait,  and 
negligent  in  his  dress,  Wann-hearted  and  tender,  and 
especially  attracted  towards  women  and  children,  the 
cause  of  his  celibacy  always  remained  a  mystery  to 
his  friends. 

The    manner   of  his  death,    finally,  illustrated    the 
genuine  humanity  of  his  nature.    In  September,  1826, 
although  an  invalid   at  the  time,  he  made  a  journey 
to  Mannheim,  for   the   sake  of  procuring  a  mitigation 
of  the  sentence  of   a  condemned  poacher    whose  case 
appealed  strongly  to   his  sympathy,    His  exertions  on 
behalf  of  the  poor  man  so  aggravated  his  disease  that 
he   was   soon    beyond    medical  aid.    Only   his  corpse, 
crowned  with  laurel,  returned  to  Carlsruhe.    Nine  years 
afterwards,  a  monument  was  erected  to  his  momoxy  in 
the  park  attached  to  the  Ducal  palace.    Nor  have  the 
inhabitants  of   the  Black  Forest  failed  in  worthy  eon- 
memoration  of  their  poet's  name.    A  prominent  peak 
among  the   mountains,  which  inclose  the  valley  of  his 
favorite  "Meadow,"  has  been  solemnly  christened  "He- 
bel's  Mount " ;  and  a  flower  of  the    Forest— the  Anr 
thericum  of  Linnseus — ^now  figures  in  German  botanies 
as  the  Eebdia  Alemannioa. 

AFBIL,  1863,  , 


I       I 


FRIEDItlOH  RtJOKERT. 

"TXn'^^^^  *«^  y^"  Eichendorff,  Heine,  TThland, 
^^  had  passed  away,  when  the  death  of  Friedrich 
Eiickert,  the  sole  survivor  of  the  minor  gods  who  in- 
habited the  higher  slopes  of  the  "Weimar  Olympus, 
closed  the  list  of  the  grand  old  generation  of  German 
poets.  Yet,  although  contemporary  with  these  poets, 
Eiickert  was  not  of  them  in  the  structure  of  his  mind, 
nor  the  character  of  his  poetical  development.  No 
author  ever  stood  so  lonely  among  his  contemporaries. 
Looking  over  the  long  catalogue,  not  only  of  German 
but  of  European  poets,  we  find  no  one  with  whom  he 
can  be  compared.  His  birthplace  is  supposed  to  be 
Schweinfurt,  but  it  is  to  be  sought,  in  reality,  some- 
whore  on  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates.  His  true  con- 
temporaries were  Saadi  and  Hariri  of  Bosrah. 

Riickert*s  biography  may  be  given  in  a  few  words, 
his  life  having  been  singularly  devoid  of  incident.  He 
seems  even  to  have  been  spared  the  usual  alternations 
of  fortune,  in  a  material  as  well  as  a  literary  sense. 
With  the  exception  of  a  somewhat  acridly  hostile  cKti- 


FRIEDR2CH  RUCKERT.  93 

cism,  which  the  Jahrbucher  of  Halle  dealt  out  to  him 
for  several  years  in  succession,  his  reputation  has  en- 
joyed a  gradual  and  steady  growth  since  his  first  ap- 
pearance as  a  poet,  His  place  is  now  so  well  defined 
that  death — which  sometimes  changes,  while  it  fixes,  the 
impression  an  author  makes  upon  his  generation — can* 
not  seriously  elevate  or  depress  it.  In  life  he  stood  so 
far  aloof  from  the  fashions  of  the  day,  that  all  his  suc- 
cesses were  permanent  achievements. 

He    was    bom    on    the    16th    of    May,   1788,    in 
Schweinfurt,  a  pleasant  old   town  in  Bavaria,  near  the 
baths  of  Kissingen,    As  a  student  ho  visited  Jena,  where 
he  distinguished  himself  by  his  devotion  to  philological 
and  literary  studies.    For  some  years  a  private  tutor,  in 
1815  he  became  connected  with  the  Morgenhlatt,  pub- 
lished by  Cotta,  in  Stuttgart.    The  year  1818  he  spent 
in  Italy.    Soon  after  his  return,  he  married,  and  estab- 
lished  himself  in  Ooburg,  of   which  place,  I  believe, 
his  wife  waa  a  native.    Here  he  occupied  himself  os- 
tensibly as  a  teacher,  but  in  reality  with  an  enthusiafi- 
tic  and  untiring  study  of  the  Oriental  languages  and 
literature.    Twice  he  was  called  away  by  appointments 
which  were  the  result  of  his  growing  fame  as  poet  and 
scholar, — ^the   first  time  in  1826,   when  he  was    made 
Professor  of  the  Oriental  Languages  at  the  University 
of  Erkngen ;  and  again  in  1840,  when  he  was  appointed 
to  a  similar  place  at  the  University  of  Berlin,  with  the 
title  of  Privy  Councillor.     Both  these  posts  were  un* 


94  J^SSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 

congenial  to  lila  natnre.  Though  bo  competent  to  fill 
them,  he  discharged  his  duties  reluctantly  and  with  a' 
certain  impatience;  probably  there  were  few  more  joy* 
CUB  moments  of  his  life  than  when,  1849,  he  was  allowed 
to  retire  permanently  to  the  pastoral  seclusion  'of  his  little 
property  at  Neusos,  a  suburb  of  Coburg. 

One  of  his  Gorman  critics  remarks  that  the  poem 
in  which  he  celebrates  his  release  embodies  a  nearer 
approach  to  passion  than  all  his  Oriental  songs  of  love, 
sorrow,  or  wine.  It  is  a  joyous  dithyrambic,  which, 
despite  its  artful  and  semi-impossible  metre,  must  have 
been  the  swiftly-worded  expression  of  a  genuine  feeling. 
Let  me  attempt  to  translate  the  first  stanza  :— 

Out  of  the  dust  of  tbo 
To^ii  0*  the  king. 
Into  the  lust  of  the 
Green  of  spring,— 
Forth  from  the  noises  of 

Streets  and  walls, 

Unto  the  voices  of 

Waterfalls,— 

Ho  who  presently 

Flies  Is  blest : 

Fate  thus  pleasantly 

Makes  my  nest  !  * 

*  The  nader  ma/  be  carioas  to  see  how  imoothly  and  aatwally  theaa  daetylt 
(to  forced  In  the  translation)  flow  In  the  original ;~ 

Aqb  der  ataabigea 

Reeidenz, 

In  den  laabigen 

FrlBchen  Lena— 

Aus  dem  tosenden 


FRIEDRICH  rVCKERT.  ^  05 

The  qnaint  old  residence  at  Neuses  thus  early  bo- 
came,  and  for  nearly  half  a  century  continued  to  be,  the 
poet's  home,    No  desire  to  visit  the  Orient — the  native 
land  of  his  brain — seems  to  have  disturbed  him,    Porisibly 
the  Italian  journey  was  in  some  respects  disenchanting. 
The  few  poems  which  date  from  it  are  picturesque  and 
descriptive,  but  do  not  indicate  that  his  imagination  waa 
warmed  by  what  he  saw.     He  was  never  so  happy  as 
when  alone  with  his  books  and  manuscripts,  studying  or 
writing,  according  to  the  dominant  mood.    This  secluded 
habit  engendered  a  shyness  of  manner,  which  frequently 
repelled  the  strangers  who  came  to  see  him,— especially 
those  who   failed  to  detect  the    simple,  tender,  genial 
nature  of  the  man,  under  his  wonderful  load  of  learning. 
But  there  was  nothing  morbid  or  misanthropical  in  his 
composition ;  his  shyness  was  rather  the  result  of  an  in- 
tense devotion  to  his  studies.    These  gradually  became  a 
necessity  of  his  daily  life;  his  health,  his  mental  peace, 
depended  upon  them;  and  whatever  disturbed  their  reg- 
ular recurrenoe  took  from  him  more  than  the  mere  time 
lost. 

When  I  first  visited  Ooburg,  in  October,  1862,  I  was 
very  anxious  to  make  Biickert's  acquaintance.  My  in- 
terest in  Oriental  literature  had  been  refreshed,  at  that 

OuBenschwall 
Za  dem  kosenden 
WMMrfall,-  ! 

Wer  slch  rettete. 
Dank  *s  dem  Gluck, 
Wie  mich  bett«U 
Heia  Q«Mblck  1 


96  JSSSA  ys  AND  NOTES. 

time,  by  nearly  ten  montlis  of  travel  In  Eaatem  lands, 
and  some  knowledge  of  modem  colloqnial  Arabic  I 
bad  read  bis  wonderful  translation  of  tbe  MakamM  ot 
Hariri,  and  felt  Bure  tbat  be  would  sbare  in  my  entbuai- 
asm  for  tbe  people  to  wbose  treasures  of  song  be  bad 
given  so  many  years  of  bis  life.  I  found,  bowever,  tbat 
very  few  families  in  tbe  town  were  familiarly  acquainted 
witb  tbe  poet, — tbat  many  persons,  even,  wbo  bad  been 
residents  of  tbe  place  for  years,  bad  never  seen  bim*  Ho 
was  presumed  to  be  inaccessible  to  strangers. 

It  fortunately  bappened  tbat  one  of  my  friends  knew 
a  student  of  tbe  Oriental  languages,  tben  residing  in  Co- 
burg.  Tbe  latter,  wbo  was  in  tbe  babit  of  consulting 
Eiickert  in  regard  to  bis  Sanskrit  studies,  offered  at  onco 
to  conduct  me  to  Neuses.  A  walk  of  twenty  minutes 
across  tbe  meadows  of  tbe  Itz,  along  tbe  base  of  tbe 
wooded  bills  wbicb  terminate,  just  beyond,  in  tbe  castled 
Kallenberg  (tbe  summer  residence  of  Duke  Ernest  II.), 
brougbt  us  to  tbe  little  village,  wbicb  lies  so  snugly 
bidden  in  its  own  orcbards  tbat  one  migbt  almost  pass 
witbout  discovering  it.  Tbe  afternoon  was  warm  and 
sunny,  and  a  bazy,  idyllic  atmospbere  veiled  and  tbrew 
into  remoteness  tbe  bolder  features  of  tbe  landscape. 
Near  at  band,  a  few  quaint  old  tile-roofed  bouses  rose 
above  tbe  trees. 

My  guide  left  tbe  bigbway,  crossed  a  clear  little  brook 
on  tbe  left,  and  entered  tbe  bottom  of  a  garden  bebind 
tbe  largest  of  tbese  bouses.     As  we  were  making  our 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT,  .  97 

way  between  the  plum-trees  and  the  gooseberry-bushes,  I 
perceived  a  tall  figure  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
bed  of  late-blossoming  roses,  over  which  ho  was  bending 
as  if  to  inhale  their  fragrance.  The  sound  of  our  steps 
startled  him;  and  as  he  straightened  himself  and  faced 
us,  I  saw  that  it  could  bo  none  other  tlian  Kiickcrt,  I 
believe  liis  first  impulse  was  to  fiy;  but  wo  were  already 
so  near  that  his  moment  of  indecision  settled  the  matter. 
The  student  presented  me  to  him  as  an  American  trav- 
eller, whereat  I  thought  he  seemed  to  experience  a  little 
relief.  Nevertheless,  he  looked  uneasily  at  his  coat, — a 
sort  of  loose,  commodious  blouse, — at  his  hands,  full  of 
seeds,  and  muttered  some  incoherent  words  about  fiowers. 
Suddenly,  lifting  his  head  and  looking  steadily  at  us,  he 
said,  "Come  into  the  house!" 

The  student,  who  was  familial  with  his  habits,  led 
me  to  a  pleasant  room  on  the  second  floor.  The  win- 
dows looked  towards  the  sun,  and  were  filled  with  hot- 
house plants.  We  were  scarcely  seated  before  Riickert 
made  his  appearance,  having  laid  aside  his  blouse,  and 
put  on  a  coat.  After  a  moment  of  hesitation,  he  asked 
mo,  "Where  have  you  been  travelling?"  "I  come 
from  the  Orient,"  I  anWered.  He  looked  up  with  a 
keen  light  in  his  eyes.  "From  the  Orient  1"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  "Where  ?  let  me  know  where  you  have  been, 
and  what  you  have  seeif!"  From  that  moment  he  was 
self-possessed,  full  of  life,  enthusiasm,  fancy   and  humor. 

He  was  then  in  his  sixty-fifth  year,  but  still  enjoyed 


98  £SSA  ys  AND  NOTES, 

the  ripe  maturity  of  his  powerg.  A  man  of  more  strik- 
ing personal  appearance  I  have  geldom  seen.  Over  six 
feet  in  height,  and  somewhat  gaunt  of  body,  the  first  im- 
pression of  an  absence  of  physical  grace  vanished  as  soon 
as  one  looked  upon  his  countenance.  His  face  was  long, 
and  every  feature  strongly  marked, — the  brow  high  and 
massive,  the  nose  strong  and  slightly  aquiline,  the  mouth 
wide  and  firm,  and  the  jaw  broad,  square  and  projecting. 
His  thick  silver  hair,  parted  in  the  middle  of  his  fore- 
head, fell  in  wavy  masses  upon  his  shoulders.  His  eyes 
were  deep-set,  bluish-gray,  and  bunied  with  a  deep,  lus- 
trous fire  as  he  became  animated  in  conversation.  At 
times  they  had  a  mystic,  rapt  expression,  as  if  the  far 
East,  of  wliich  he  spoke,  were  actually  visible  to  his 
bniin.  I  thought  of  an  Arab  sheikh,  looking  towards 
Mecca,  at  the  hour  of  prayer. 

I  regret  that  I  made  no  notes  of  the  conversation,  in 
which,  as  may  be  guessed,  I  took  but  little  part.  It  was 
rather  a  monologue  on  the  subject  of  Arabic  poetry,  full 
of  the  clearest  and  richest  knowledge,  and  sparkling  with 
those  evanescent  felicities  of  diction  which  can  so  rarely 
be  recalled.  I  was  charmed  out  of  all  sense  of  time,  and 
Was  astonished  to  find,  when  tea  appeared,  that  more 
than  two  hours  had  elapsed.  The  student  had  magnani- 
mously left  me  to  the  poet,  devoting  himself  to  the  good 
Fran  Kiickert,  the  "Luise"  of  her  husband^s  ^^  Liehes- 
friihUng^^  (Spring-time  of  Love).  She  still,  although 
now  a  grand-mother,  retained  some  traces  of  the  fresh, 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT,  99 

rosy  beauty  of  lier  younger  days ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to 
see  the  watchful,  tender  interest  upon  her  face,  when- 
ever she  turned  towards  the  poet.  Before  I  left,  she 
whispered  to  me,  "  I  am  always  very  glad  when  my  hus- 
band has  an  opportunity  to  talk  about  the  Orient :  noth- 
ing refreshes  him  so  much." 

But  we  must  not  lose  sight  of  Ruckert's  poetical  bi- 
ography. His  first  volume,  entitled  "  German  Poems,  by 
Freimund  Raimar,"  was  published  at  Heidelberg  in  tho 
year  1814,  It  contained,  among  other  things,  liis  famous 
"  GehamUchte  Sonette^^  (Sonnets  in  Annor),  which  ai'e 
still  read  and  admired  as  masterpieces  of  that  form  of 
verso.  Preserving  the  Petrarchan  model,  even  to  the 
feminine  rhymes  of  the  Italian  tongue,  he  has  never- 
theless succeeded  in  concealing  the  extraordinary  art  by 
which  the  difficult  task  was  accomplished.  Thus  early 
the  German  language  acquired  its  unsuspected  power  of 
flexibility  in  his  hands.  It  is  ver}'  evident  to  mo  that 
his  peculiar  characteristics  as  a  poet  sprang  not  so  much 
from  his  Oriental  studies  as  from  a  rare  native  faculty 
of  mind. 

These  "Sonnets  in  Armor,"  although  they  may  sound 
but  gravely  beside  tho  Tyrtsean  strains  of  Amdt  and 
Komer,  are  nevertheless  full  of  stately  and  inspiring 
music.    They  remind  one  of  Wordsworth's  phrase, — 

**InMilton»8hand, 
The  thing  became  a  trumpet,**—* 

and  must  have  had  their  share  in  stimulating  that  na* 


100  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

tional  Bentiment  whicli  overturned  the  Kapoleonio  rule, 
and  for  three  or  four  years  flourished  so  greenlj  upon  its 
ruins.  '  j 

Shortly  afterwards,  Riickert  published  "Napoleon,  a 
Political  Comedy,'*  which  did  not  increase  his  fame. 
His  next  important  contribution  to  general  literature  was 
the  "Oriental  Roses,"  which  appeared  in  1822.  Three  ; 
years  before,  Goethe  had  published  his  ^^  Westostlicher 
Divariy^  and  the  younger  poet  dedicated  his  first  venture  ' 
in  the  satne  field  to  his  venerable  predecessor,  in  stanzas 
which  express  the  most  delicate,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  most  generous  homage.  I  scarcely  know  where  to 
look  for  a  more  graceful  dedication  in  verse.  It  is  said 
that  Goethe  never  acknowledged  the  compliment, — an 
omission  which  some  German  authors  attribute  to  the 
latter^s  distaste  at  being  surpassed  on  his  latest  and  (at 
that  time)  favorite  field.  No  one  familiar  with  Goethe's 
life  and  works  will  accept  this  conjecture. 

It  is  quite  impossible  to  translate  this  poem  literally, 
♦  in  the  original  metre  \  the  rhymes  are  exclusively  femi- 
nine.    I  am  aware  that  I  shall  shock  ears  familiar  with     i 
the  original  by  substituting  masculine  rhymes  in  the  two 
stanzas  which  I  present ;  but  thei*e  is  really  no  alternative.    ^ 

Would  you  taste  * 

Purest  East, 

Hence  depart,  and  seek  the  selfsame  man 

Who  our  West  :t 

Gave  the  best 


FRIEDRICH  rVCKERT,  101 

Wine  that  ever  flowed  from  Poet's  can  : 
When  the  Western  flavors  ended,  I 

He  the  Orient's  vintage  spended, —  • 

Yonder  dreams  he  on  his  own  divan  ! 

Sunset-red 

Goethe  led 

Star  to  be  of  all  the  sunset-land  : 

Now  the  higher 

Moming-firo 

Makes  him  lord  of  all  the  morning-land  I 

Where  the  two,  together  turning. 

Meet,  the  rounded  heaven  is  burning 

Rosy-bright  in  one  celestial  brand  1 

I  have  not  the  original  edition  of  the  "Oriental 
Roses,"  but  I  believe  the  volume  contained  the  greater 
portion  of  Riickert's  marvellous  "Ghazels."  Count  Pla- 
ten, it  is  true,  had  preceded  him  by  one  year,  but  his 
adaptation  of  the  Persian  metre  to  German  poetry — 
light  and  graceful  and  melodious  as  he  succeeded  in 
making  it — falls  far  short  of  Riickert's  infinite  richness 
and  skill.  One  of  the  latter's  "Ghazels"  contains 
twenty-six  variations  of  the  same  rhyme,  yet  so  subtly 
managed,  so  colored  with  the  finest  reflected  tints  of 
Eastern  rhetoric  and  fancy,  that  the  immense  art  implied 
in  its  construction  is  nowhere  unpleasantly  apparent. 
In  fact,  one  dare  not  say  that  these  poems  are  oR  art. 
In  the  Oriental  measures  the  poet  found  the  garment 
which  best  fitted  his  own  mind«    We  are  not  to  infer 


102  JSSSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 

that  he  did  not  move  joyously,  and  after  a  time,  ea«ily, 
within  the  limitations  which,  to  most  authors,  would 
have  been  intolerable  fetters.  ' 

In  1826  appeared  his  translation  of  the  Mahamdt  of 
Hariri.  The  old  silk-merchant  of  Bosrah  never  could 
have  anticipated  such  an  immortality.  The  word  Jftf- 
hamdt  means  "sessions,'*  (probably  the  Italian  converses- 
eione  best  translates  it,)  but  is  applied  to  a  series  of 
short  narratives,  or  rather  anecdotes,  told  alternately  in 
verse  and  rhymed  prose,  with  all  the  brilliance  of  rhet- 
oric, the  richness  of  alliteration,  and  the  endless  gram* 
matical  subtilties  of  whijh  the  Arabic  language  is  ca- 
pable. The  work  of  Hariri  is  considered  the  unap- 
proachable model  of  this  style  of  narrative  throughout 
all  the  East.  Eiickert  called  his  translation  "The  Met- 
amorphoses of  Abou-Seyd  of  Serudj," — the  name  of  the 
hero  of  the  story.  In  this  work  he  has  shown  the  ca- 
pacity of  one  language  to  reproduce  the  very  spirit  of 
another  with  which  it  has  the  least  affinity.  Like  the 
original,  the  translation  can  never  be  surpassed;  it  is 
unique  in  literature. 

As  the  acrobat  who  has  mastered  every  branch  of  his 
art,  from  the  spidery  contortions  of  the  India-rubber 
man  to  the  double  somersault  and  the  flying  trapeze,  is 
to  the  well-developed  individual  of  ordinary  muscular 
habits,  so  is  the  language  of  Riickert  in  this  work  to  the 
language  of  all  other  German  authors.  It  is  one  per- 
petual gymnastic  show  of  grammar,  rhythm  and  fancy. 


FRIEDRICH  R  UCKER  T,  103 

Moods,  tenses,  antecedents,  appositions,  whirl  ancj  flash 
around  you,  to  the  sound  of  some  strange,  barbaric 
music.  Closer  and  more  rapidly  they  link,  chassez  and 
cross  hands,  until,  when  you  anticipate  a  hopeless  tangle, 
some  bold,  bright  word  leaps  unexpectedly  into  the 
throng,  and  resolves  it  to  instant  harmony.  One's 
breath  is  taken  away,  and  his  brain  made  dizzy,  by  any 
half-dozen  of  the  "  Metamorj)hoses,"  In  this  respect  the 
translation  has  become  a  representative  work.  The 
Arabic  title,  misunderstood,  has  given  birth  to  a  Ger- 
man word.  Daring  and  difficult  rliymos  are  now  fre- 
quently termed  Mdkamen  in  German  literary  society. 

Riickort's  studies  were  not  confined  to  the  Arabic 
and  Persian  languages ;  he  also  devoted  many  years  to  the 
Sanskrit.  In  1828  appeared  his  translation  of  "Nal  and 
Damayanti,"  and  some  years  later,  **Hamasa,  or  the 
oldest  Arabian  Poetry,"  and  "Amrilkais,  Poet  and 
King."  In  addition  to  these  translations,  he  published, 
between  the  years  1835  and  1840,  the  following  original 
poems,  or  collections  of  poems,  on  Oriental  themes, — • 
**  Legends  of  the  Morning-Land,"  "Eustem  and  Soh- 
rab,"  and  "Brahminical  Stories,"  These  poems  are  so 
bathed  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  studies,  iihat  it  is  very 
difficult  to  say  which  are  his  own  independent  con- 
ceptions, and  which  the  suggestions  of  Eastern  poets. 
Where  he  has  borrowed  images  or  phrases,  (as  some- 
times from  the  Koran,)  they  are  woven,  without  any  di&- 
cemible  seam,  into  the  texture  of  his  own  brain. 


104  JSSSA  ys  AND  KOTES. 

Some  of  BUckert's  criticB  have  asserted  that  his  ex- 
traordinary mastery  of  all  the  resources  of  language  ope- 
rated to  the  detriment  of  his  poetical  faculty, — that  the 
feeling  to  be  expressed  became  subordinate  to  the  skill 
displayed  by  expressing  it  in  an  unusual  form.  They 
claim,  moreover,  that  he  produced  a  mass  of  sparkling 
fragments,  rather  than  any  single  great  work.  I  am 
convinced,  however,  that  the  first  charge  is  unfounded, 
basing  my  opinion  upon  my  knowijdge  of  the  poet's 
simple,  true,  tender  nature,  which  I  learned  to  appreciate 
during  my  later  visits  to  his  home,  After  the  death  of 
his  wife,  the  daughter,  who  thereafter  assumed  her 
mother's  place  in  the  household,  wrote  mo  frequent  ac- 
counts of  her  father's  grief  and  loneliness,  enclosing  man- 
uscript copies  of  the  poems  in  which  ho  expressed  his 
sorrow.  These  poems  are  exceedingly  sweet  and  touch- 
ing ;  yet  they  are  all  marked  by  the  same  flexile  use  of 
difficult  rhythms  and  unpi^ecedented  rhymes. 

Few  of  Goethe's  minor  songs  are  more  beautiful  than 
his  serenade,  0  gieb  vom  weicJi^ii  Pflihle^  where  the  in- 
terlinked repetitions  are  a  perpetual  surprise  and  charm; 
yet  Riickert  has  written  a  score  of  more  artfully  con- 
structed and  equally  melodious  songs.  His  collection  of 
amatory  poems  entitled  ^^ Liebesfnihling^^  contains  some  of 
the  sunniest  idyls  in  any  language.  That  his  genius  was 
lyrical  and  not  epic,  was  not  a  fault  *,  that  it  delighted  in 
varied  and  unusual  metres,  was  an  exceptional — perhaps 
in  his  case  a  phenomenal — form  of  development;  but  I 


FRIED  RICH  RVCKERT,  105 

do  not  think  it  was  any  tlie  less  instinctively  natttraL 
One  of  bis  quatrains  runs  ;-^ 

Much  I  mako  as  make  tho  others  ;  i 

Better  much  another  man 
Makes  than  I ;  but  much,  moreover, 

Make  I  which  no  other  can, 

His  poetical  comment  on  tho  translation  of  Hariri  is 
given  in  prose: — "Ho  who,  like  myself,  unfortunate 
man  I  is  philologist  and  poet  in  tho  same  person,  cannot 
do  better  than  to  translate  as  I  do.  My  Hariri  has  illus- 
trated how  philology  and  poetry  are  competent  to  stimu- 
late and  to  complete  each  other,  If  thou,  reader,  wilt 
look  upon  this  hybrid  production  neither  too  philologi- 
cally  nor  over-poetically,  it  may  delight  and  instruct  thee. 
That  which  is  false  in  philology  thou  wilt  attribute  to 
poetic  license,  and  where  the  poetry  is  deficient,  thou 
wilt  give  the  blame  to  philology." 

The  critics  who  charge  Riickert  with  never  having 
produced  "a  whole,"  have  certainly  forgotten  one  of 
his  works, — "The  Wisdom  of  the  Brahmin,  a  Didactic 
Poem,  in  Fragments."  The  title  somewhat  describes  its 
character.  The  "  fragments  "  are  couplets,  in  iambic  hex- 
ameter, each  one  generally  complete  in  itself,  yet  grouped 
in  sections  by  some  connecting  thought,  after  the  manner 
of  the  stanzas  of  Tennyson's  "In  Memoriam."  There 
are  more  than  9v»  thousand  couplets,  in  all,  divided  into 
twenty  books,— the  whole  forming  a  mass  of  poetic  wis- 


I 
106  ESsAyS  AND  NOTES. 

dom,  coupled  with  Buch  amazing  wealth  of  illastration, 
that  this  one  volume,  if  sufficiently  diluted,  would  make 
several  thousand  "Proverbial  Philosophies.'*  It  is  not  a 
book  to  read  continuously,  but  one  which,  I  should  im- 
agine, no  educated  German  could  live  without  possessing. 
I  never  open  its  pages  without  the  certainty  of  refresh- 
ment. Its  tone  is  quietistic,  as  might  readily  be  conjec- 
tured, but  it  is  the  calm  of  serene  reflection,  not  of  in- 
difference. No'  work  which  Eiickert  ever  wrote,  so 
strongly  illustrates  the  incessant  activity  of  his  mind. 
Half  of  these  six  thousand  couplets  are  terse  and  pithy 
enough  for  proverbs,  and  their  construction  would  have 
sufficed  for  the  lifetime  of  many  poets. 

With  the  exception  of  " Kaiser  Barbarossay^  and  two 
or  three  other  ballads,  the  amatory  poems  of  Hiiokert 
have  attained  the  widest  popularity  among  his  country- 
men. Many  of  the  lovensongs  have  been  set  to  music  by 
Mendelssohn  and  other  composers.  Their  melody  is  of 
that  subtile,  delicate  quality  which  excites  a  musician's 
fancy,  suggesting  the  tones  to  which  the  words  should 
bo  wedded.  Precisely  for  this  reason  they  are  most  diffi- 
cult to  translate.  The  first  stanza  may,  in  most  casesj 
be  tolerably  reproduced;  but  as  it  usually  contains  a 
refrain  which  is  repeated  to  a  constantly  varied  rhyme, 
throughout  the  whole  song  or  poem,  the  labor  at  first 
becomes  desperate,  and  then  impossible.  An  example 
(the  original  of  which  I  possess,  in  the  author's  manu- 
script) will  best  illustrate  this  particular  difficulty.    Here 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT,  107 

tHe  metre  and  the  order  of  rhyme  have  been  Btrictly 
presenred,  except  in  the  first  and  third  lines. 

He  came  to  meet  me 

In  rain  and  thunder ; 

My  heart  'gan  beating 

In  timid  wonder  : 

Could  I  guess  whether 

Thenceforth  together 

Our  path  should  run,  so  long  asunder  f 

He  came  to  meet  me 

In  rain  and  thunder, 

With  guile  to  cheat  me,— 

My  heart  to  plunder. 

"Was't  mine  he  captured  ? 

Or  his  I  raptured  ? 

Half-way  both  met,  in  bliss  and  wonder  I 

He  came  to  meet  me 

In  rain  and  thunder  j 

Spring-blessings  greet  me 

Spring-blossoms  under. 

What  though  he  leave  me  ? 

No  partings  grieve  me, — 

No  path  can  lead  our  hearts  asunder  I 

The  Irish  poet,  James  Clarence  Mangan^  (whose 
translations  from  the  German  comprise  both  the  best 
and  the  worst  specimens  I  have  yet  found,)  has  been 
successful  in  rendering  one  of  Riickert's  ghazels.  I  am 
specially  tempted  to  quote  it,  on  account  of  the  cur- 


108  £SSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

Ions  general  resemblance  (accidental,  no   doubt)  wWch 
Poe'a  "Lenore"  bears  to  it. 

**I  saw  her  once,  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more  : 
T  waa  Eden^s  light  on  earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
Amid  the  throng  she  passed  along  the  meadow-floor  ; 
Spring  seemed  to  smile  on  earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more, 
But  whence  she  came,  which  way  she  went,  what  garb  she  wore, 
I  noted  not ;  I  gazed  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 

«*I  saw  her  once,  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more  t 
*T  was  Paradise  on  earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more* ' 
Ah !  what  avail  my  vigils  pale,  my  magic  lore  ? 
She  shone  before  mine  eyes  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
The  shallop  of  my  peace  is  wrecked  on  Beauty^s  shore ; 
Near  Ilope^s  fair  isle  it  rode  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 

**I  saw  her  once,  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more  : 
Earth  looked  like  Heaven  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 
Her  presence  thrilled  and  lighted  to  its  inmost  core 
My  desert  breast  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 
So  may,  perchance,  a  meteor  glance  at  midnight  o*er 
Some  ruined  pile  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 

**  t  saw  her  once,  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more  t 
The  earth  was  Eden*land  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
O,  might  I  see  but  once  again,  as  once  before, 
Through  chance  or  wile,  that  shape  awhile,  and  then  no  more  t 
Death  soon  would  heal  my  grief  :  this  heart,  now  sad  and  sore, 
Would  beat  anew,  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more  I" 

Here,  nevertlieless,  sometLing  is  sacrificed.    Tlie  trans- 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT,  100 

lation  ■  is  by  fto  means  literal,  and  lacks  the  crispness 
of  Oriental  antithesis.  Riickert,  I  fear,  will  never  be  as 
fortunate  as  Hariri  of  Bosrah. 

When,  in  1850,  I  again  visited  Germany,  I  received 
a  friendly  message  from  the  old  poet,  with  a  kind  in- 
vitation to  visit  him.  Late  in  November  I  found  him 
apparently  unchanged  in  body  and  spirit, — simple,  en- 
thusiastic and,  in  spite  of  his  seclusion,  awake  to  all 
the  movements  of  the  world.  One  of  his  married  sons 
was  then  visiting  him,  so  that  the  household  was  larger 
and  livelier  than  usual ;  but,  as  ho  sat,  during  the 
evening,  in  his  favorite  arm-chair,  with  pipe  and  beer, 
he  fell  into  the  same  brilliant,  wise  strain  of  talk,  un- 
disturbed by  all  the  cheerful  young  voices  around  him. 

The  conversation  gradually  wandered  away  from  the 
Orient  to  the  modern  languages  of  Europe,  I  re- 
marked the  special  ciipacity  of  the  German  for  descrip- 
tions of  forest  scenery,— of  the  feeling  and  sentiment 
of  deep,  dark  woods  and  woodland  solitudes. 

"  May  not  that  be,"  said  ho,  "  because  the  race  lived 
for  centuries  in  forests?  A  language  is  always  richest 
in  its  epithets  for  those  things  with  which  the  peo- 
ple who  speak  it  are  most  familiar.  Look  at  the 
many  terms  for  *  horso '  and  *  sword '  in  Arabic." 

♦'But  the  old  Britons  lived  also  in  forests,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

♦*I  suspect,"  he  answered,  "while  the  English  lan- 
guage was   taking    shape,    the   people   knew  qvite    as 


110  £SSA  ys  AND  NOTES. 

much  of  the  eea  as  of  the  woods.  Yon  ought,  there* 
fore,  to  surpass  us  in  describing  coast  and  sea  scen- 
ery, winds  and  storms  and  the  motion  of  waves.'* 

The  idea  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  but  I 
found  it  to  be  correct. 

Though  not  speaking  English,  Riickert  had  a  thor- 
ough critical  knowledge  of  the  language,  and  a  great 
admiration  of  its  qualities.  He  admitted  that  its  chances 
for  becoming  the  dominant  tongue  of  the  world  were 
greater  than  those  of  any  other.  Much  that  he  said 
upon  this  subject  interested  me  greatly  at  the  time, 
but  the  substance  of  it  has  escaped  me* 

AVlien  I  left,  that  evening,  I  looked  upon  his  cheer» 
ful,  faithful  wife  for  the  last  time.  Five  years  elapsed 
before  I  visited  Coburg  again,  and  she  died  in  the  in- 
terval. In  the  summer  of  1801,  I  had  an  hour's  con- 
versation with  him,  chiefly  on  American  affairs,  In 
which  ho  oxproHriod  the  keenest  interest.  lie  had  road 
much,  and  hud  a  very  correct  undurHtunding  of  tho 
nature  of  tho  struggle.  lie  was  buried  in  his  studies, 
in  a  small  house  outside  of  the  village,  where  he 
spent  half  of  every  day  alone,  and  inaccessible  to  every 
one;  but  his  youngest  daughter  ventured  to  summon 
him  awuy  from  bin  bookn, 

Two  years  later  (in  June,  1803)  I  paid  my  last  visit 
to  Keuses.  He  had  then  passed  his  seventy-fifth  birth- 
day; his  frame  was  still  unbent,  but  the  Waves  of  gray 
hair  on  his  shoulders  were  thinner,  and  his  step  showed 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT,  111 

the  increasing  feebleness  of  age.  The  fire  of  his  eye 
was  softened,  not  dimmed,  and  the  long  and  happy 
life  that  lay  behind  him  had  given  his  face  a  peace- 
ful, serene  expression,  prophetic  of  a  gentle  translation 
into  the  other  life  that  was  drawing  near.  So  I  shall 
always  remember  him, — scholar  and  poet,  strong  with 
the  best  strength  of  a  man,  yet  trustful  and  accessi- 
ble to  joy  as  a  child« 

JuLT,1866. 


THE  AUTHOR   OF   "SAUL.** 

W"E  ore  not  one  of  those  who  believe  that  the 
manifestation  of  any  native,  vigorous  faculty  of 
the  mind  is  dependent  upon  circumstances.  It  is  true 
that  education,  in  its  largest  sense,  modifies  develop- 
ment; but  it  cannot,  to  any  serious  extent,  add  to,  or 
take  from,  the  power  to  be  developed.  In  the  lack  of 
encouragement  and  contemporary  appreciation,  certain 
of  the  finer  faculties  may  not  give  forth  their  full  and 
perfect  fragrance;  but  the  rose  is  always  seen  to  be  a 
rose,  though  never  a  bud  come  to  flower.  The  "  mute, 
inglorious  Milton"  is  a  pleasant  poetical  fiction.  Against 
the  "hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed" 
we  have  nothing  to  object,  knowing  to  what  sort  of 
hands  the  said  rod  has  so  often  been  intrusted. 

John  Howard  Payne  once  read  to  us — and  it  was 
something  of  an  infliction — a  long  manuscript  on  "The 
Neglected  Geniuses  of  America," — a  work  which  only 
death,  we  suspect,  prevented  him  from  giving  to  the 
world.  There  was  not  one  name  in  the  list  which  had 
ever  before  reached  our   ears.     Nicholas  Blauvelt  and 


THE  AUTHOR   OF  *' SAUtr  113 

"William  Phillips  and  a  number  of  other  utterly  forgot- 
ten rhymesters  were  described  and  eulogized  at  length, 
the  quoted  specimens  of  their  poetry  proving  all  the 
while  their  admirable  right  to  the  oblivion  which  Mr. 
Payne  deprecated.  They  were  men  of  culture,  some  of 
them  wealthy,  and  we  could  detect  no  lack  of  opportu- 
nity in  the  story  of  their  lives.  Had  they  been  me- 
chanics, they  would  have  planed  boards  and  laid  bricks 
from  youth  to  age.  The  Ayrshire  ploughman  and  the 
Bedford  tinker  were  made  of  other  stuff.  Our  inference 
then  was,  and  still  is,  that  unacknowledged  (or  at  least 
unmanifested)  genius  is  no  genius  at  all,  and  that  the 
lack  of  sympathy  which  many  young  authors  so  bit- 
terly lament  is  a  necessary  test  of  their  fitness  for  their 
assumed  vocation, 

Gerald  Massey  is  one  of  the  most  recent  instances 
of  the  certainty  with  which  a  poetic  faculty  by  np 
means  of  the  highest  order  will  enforce  its  own  devel- 
opment, under  seemingly  fatal  discouragements.  The 
author  of  "Saul"  is  a  better  illustration  of  the  same 
fact;  for,  although,  in  our  ignorance  of  the  cirevm- 
Btances  of  his  early  life,  we  are  unable  to  affirm  what 
particular  difficulties  ho  had  to  encounter,  we  know 
how  long  he  waa  obliged  to  wait  for  the  first  word  of 
recognition,  and  to  what  heights  he  aspired  In  the 
course  of  many  long  and  solitary  years. 

The  existence  of  "Saul"  (A  Drama,  in  Three  Parts), 
wafi  first  made  known  to  the  world  by  an  article  in  the 

i 


lU  ESSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

"North  British  Review,'*  in  the  year  1858,  when  the 
author  had  already  attained  his  forty-second  year.  The 
fact  that  the  work  was  published  in  Montreal  called 
some  attention  to  it  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  and 
a  few  critical  notices  appeared  in  our  literary  periodicals. 
It  is  still,  however,  comparatively  unknown;  and  those 
into  whose  hands  it  may  have  fallen  are,  doubtless,  igno- 
rant of  the  author's  name  and  history.  An  outline  of 
the  latter,  so  far  as  we  have  been  able  to  ascertain  its 
features,  will  help  the  reader  to  a  more  intelligent  judg- 
ment, when  we  come  to  discuss  the  author's  claim  to  a 
place  in  literature. 

Charles  Heavysego  was  bom  in  Liverpool,  England, 
in  the  year  1816.  We  know  nothing  in  regard  to  his 
parents,  except  that  they  were  poor,  yet  able  to  send 
their  son  to  an  ordinary  school.  His  passion  for  read* 
ing,  especially  such  poetry  as  fell  into  his  hands,  showed 
itself  while  ho  was  yet  a  child.  Milton  seoms  to  have 
been  the  first  author  who  made  a  profound  impression 
upon  his  mind;  but  it  is  also  reported  that  the  school* 
master  once  indignantly  snatched  Gray's  "Elegy"  from 
his  hand,  because  he  bo  frequently  selected  that  poem 
for  his  reading-lesson.  Somewhat  later,  he  saw  "Mac- 
beth" performed,  and  was  immediately  seized  with  the 
ambition  to  become  an  actor,— a  profession  for  which 
few  persons  could  be  less  qualified.  The  impression 
produced  by  this  tragedy,  combined  with  the  strict  re- 
ligious training  which  he  appears  to  have  received,  un- 


THE  AUTHOR    OF  '* SAUL:*  115 

doubtedly  fixed  the  character  and  manner  of  his  subse- 
quent literary  efforts. 

There  are  but  few  other  facts  of  his  life  which  we 
can  state  with  certainty.  His  chances  of  education 
were  evidently  very  scanty,  for  he  must  have  left 
school  while  yet  a  boy,  in  order  to  learn  his  trade, — 
that  of  a  machinist.  He  had  thenceforth  little  time 
and  less  opportunity  for  literary  culture.  His  reading 
was  desultory,  and  the  poetic  faculty,  expending  itself 
on  whatever  subjects  came  to  hand,  produced  great 
quantities  of  manuscripts,  which  were  destroyed  almost 
as  soon  as  written.  The  idea  of  publishing  them  does 
not  seem  to  have  presented  itself  to  his  mind.  Either 
his  life  must  have  been  devoid  of  every  form  of  intel- 
lectual sympathy,  or  there  was  some  external  impedi- 
ment formidable  enough  to  keep  down  that  ambition 
which  always  co-exists  with  the  creative  power. 

In  the  year  1843  he  married,  and  in  1853  emigrated 
to  Canada,  and  settled  in  Montreal.  Even  here  his  lite- 
rary labor  was  at  first  performed  in  secrecy;  he  was 
nearly  forty  years  old  before  a  line  from  his  pen  ap- 
peared in  type.  He  found  employment  in  a  machine- 
shop,  and  it  was  only  very  gradually — probably  after 
much  doubt  and  hesitation — ^that  he  came  to  the  deter- 
mination  to  subject  his  private  creations  to  tlie  ordeal 
of  print.  His  first  venture  was  a  poem  in  blank  verse, 
the  title  of  which  we  have  been  unable  to  ascertain.  A 
few  copies  were   printed   anonymously  and  distributed, 


lie  ^      ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

among  personal  friends.  It  was  a  premature  birth, 
wliich  never  knew  a  moment's  life,  and  the  father  of 
it  would  now  be  the  last-  person  to  attempt  a  resuscita- 
tion. 

Soon  afterwards  appeared — also  anonymously — a  lit- 
tle pamphlet,  containing  fifty  "so-called"  sonnets.  They 
are,  in  reality,  fragmentary  poems  of  fourteen  lines  each, 
bound  to  no  metre  or  order  of  rhyme.  In  spite  of  oc- 
casional crudities  of  expression,  the  ideas  are  always  po- 
etic and  elevated,  and  there  are  many  vigorous  couplets 
and  quatrains.  They  do  not,  however,  furnish  any  evi- 
dence of  sustained  power,  and  the  reader,  who  should 
peruse  them  as  the  only  productions  of  the  author, 
would  be  far  from  inferring  the  latter*s  possession  of 
that  lofty  epical  utterance  which  he  exhibits  in  "Saul" 
and  "  Jephthah's  Daughter." 

We  cannot  learn  that  this  second  attempt  to  obtain 
a  hearing  was  successful,  so  far  as  any  public  notice  of 
the  pamphlet  is  concerned;  but  it  seems,  at  least,  to 
have  procured  for  Mr.  Heavysege  the  first  private  rec- 
ognition of  his  poetic  abilities  which  he  had  ever  re- 
ceived, and  thereby  given  him  courage  for  a  more  am- 
bitious venture.  "  Saul,"  as  an  epical  subject,  must  have 
haunted  his  mind  for  years.  The  greater  portion  of  it, 
indeed,  had  been  written  before  he  had  become  familiar 
with  the  idea  of  publication ;  and  even  after  the  comple- 
tion of  the  work,  we  can  imagine  the  sacrifices  which 
must  have  delayed  its  appearance  in  print.    For  a  hard- 


THE   AUTHOR    OF   *' SAUL^     ^  117 

working  meclianic,  in  straitened  circumiBtances,  courage 
of  another  kind  was  required.  It  is  no  slight  expense 
to  produce  an  octavo  TOlume  of  three  hundred  and 
thirty  pages;  there  must  have  been  much  anxious  self- 
consultation,  a  great  call  for  patience,  fortitude  and 
hope,  with  who  may  know  what  doubts  and  de- 
spondencies, before,  in  1857  "Saul"  was  given  to  the 
world. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  depressing  than  its 
reception,  if  indeed  the  tenn  "reception"  can  bo  ap- 
plied to  complete  indifference.  A  country  like  Canada, 
possessing  no  nationality,  and  looking  across  the  Atlan- 
tic, not  only  for  its  political  rule,  but  also,  (until  very 
recently,  at  least),  for  its  opinions,  tastes  and  habits,  is 
especially  unfavorable  to  the  growth  of  an  independent 
literature.  Although  there  are  many  men  of  learning 
and  culture  among  the  residents  of  Montreal,  they  do 
not  form  a  class  to  whom  a  native  author  could  look 
for  encouragement  or  appreciation  sufficient  to  stamp 
him  as  successful.  The  reading  public  there  accept  the 
decrees  of  England  and  the  United  States,  and  they  did 
not  detect  the  merits  of  "Saul,"  until  the  discovery  had 
first  been  made  in  those  countries. 

Several  months  had  elapsed  since  the  publication  of 
the  volume ;  it  seemed  to  be  already  f orgotten>  when 
the  notice  to  which  we  have  referred  appeared  in  the 
"North  British  Beview."  The  author  had  sent  a  copy 
to  Mr.  Hawthorne,  then  residing  in  Liverpool,  and  that 


118  ESSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

gentleman,  being  on  friendly  terms  with  some  of  the 
writers  for  the  "Korth  British,'*  procured  the  insertion 
of  an  appreciative  review  Of  the  poem.  Up  to  that  time, 
we  believe,  no  favorable  notice  of  tiie  work  had  ap- 
peared in  Canada.  The  little  circulation  it  obtained  was 
chiefly  among  the  American  residents.  A  few  copies 
found  their  way  across  the  border,  and  some  of  our 
authors  (among  whom  we  may  mention  Mr.  Emerson 
and  Mr.  Longfellow)  were  the  first  to  recognize  the 
genius  of  the  poet.  "With  this  double  indorsement,  his 
fellow-townsmen  hastened  to  make  amends  for  their  neg- 
lect. They  could  not  bo  expected  to  give  any  very  en- 
thusiastic welcome  nor  was  their  patronage  extensive 
enough  to  confer  more  than  moderate  success;  but  the 
remaining  copies  of  the  first  small  edition  were  sold, 
and  a  second  edition  issued  in  1859. 

In  February,  1860,  we  happened  to  visit  Montreal. 
At  that  time  we  had  never  read  the  poem,  and  the  bare 
fact  of  its  existence  had  almost  faded  from  memory, 
when  it  was  recalled  by  an  American  resident,  who  was 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Heavysege,  and  whose  account  of 
his  patience,  his  quiet  energy,  and  serene  faith  in  his 
poetic  calling  strongly  interested  us.  It  was  but  a  few 
hours  before  our  departure;  there  was  a  furious  snow- 
storm blowing;  yet  the  gentleman  ordered  a  sleigh, 
and  we  drove  at  once  to  a  large  machine-shop  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  city.  Here,  amid  the  noise  of  ham- 
mers, saws  and  rasps,   in  a  great  grimy  hall  smelling 


THE  AUTHOR    OF  »  SAUir  119 

of  oil  and  iron-dust,  we  found  the  poet  at  his  work- 
bench. A  small,  slender  man,  with  a  thin,  sensitive 
face,  bright  blonde  hair,  and  eyes  of  that  peculiar  blue 
which  bums  warm,  instead  of  cold,  under  excitement,-— 
in  the  few  minutes  of  our  interview  the  picture  was 
fixed,  and  remains  so.  His  manner  was  quiet,  iiatural 
and  unassuming:  he  received  us  with  the  simple  good- 
breeding  which  a  gentleman  always  possesses,  whether 
we  find  him  on  a  throne  or  beside  an  anvil.  Not  a 
man  to  assert  his  claim  loudly,  or  to  notice  injustice 
or  neglect  by  a  single  spoken  word;  but  one  to  take 
quietly  guccess  or  failure,  in  the  serenity  of  a  mood 
habitually  untouched  by  either  extreme. 

In  that  one  brief  first  and  last  interview,  we  discov- 
ered,  at  least,  the  simple,  earnest  sincerity  of  the  man's 
nature, — a  quality  too  rare,  even  among  authors.  When 
we  took  our  seat  in  the  train  for  Rouse's  Point,  •we 
opened  the  volume  of  "  Saul."  The  first  part  was  -fin- 
ished as  wo  approached  St.  Albans;  the  second  at  Yer- 
gennes;  and  twilight  was  falling  as  we  closed  the  book 
between  Bennington  and  Troy.  "Whatever  crudities  of 
expression,  inaccuracies  of  rhythm,  faults  of  arrange- 
ment, and  violations  of  dramatic  law  met  us  from  time 
to  time,  the  earnest  purpose  of  the  writer  cairied  us 
over  them  all  The  book  has  a  fine  flavor  of  the  Eliz- 
abethan age, — a  sustained  epio  rather  than  dramatio  char- 
acter, an  affiuence  of  quaint,  original  images;  yet  the 
construction  was  frequently  that  of  a  school-boy.     In 


120  MSS^yS  AND  NOTES. 

opnlenoe  and  matarity  of  ideaB,  and  poverty  of  artistic 
skill,  the  work  stands  almost  alone  in  literature.  What 
little  we  have  learned  of  the  history  of  the  author  sug- 
gests an  explanation  of  this  peculiarity.  Never  was  so 
much  genuine  power  so  long  silent. 

"Saul'*  is  yet  so  little  known,  that  a  descriptive 
outline  of  the  poem  will  be  a  twice-told  tale  to  very 
few  persons.  The  author  strictly  follows  the  history  of 
the  renowned  Hebrew  king,  as  it  is  related  in  i.  Samuel, 
commencing  with  the  tenth  chapter,  but  divides  the 
subject  into  three  dramas,  after  the  manner  of  Schiller's 
"  TVallenstein.*'  The  first  part  embraces  the  history  of 
Saul,  from  his  anointing  by  Samuel  at  Eamah  to 
David's  exorcism  of  the  evil  spirit,  (xvi.  23,)  and  con- 
tains five  acts.  The  second  part  opens  with  David  as  a 
guest  in  the  palace  at  Gibeahi  The  defeat  of  the  Phil- 
istines at  Elah,  Saul's  jealousy  of  David,  and  the  latter's 
marriage  with  Michal  form  the  staple  of  the  four. acts 
of  this  part.  The  third  part  consists  of  six  acts  of  un- 
usual length,  (some  of  them  have  thirteen  scenes,)  and 
is  devoted  to  the  pursuits  and  escapes  of  David,  the 
"Witch  of  Eudor,  and  the  final  battle,  wherein  the  king 
aijd  his  three  sons  are  slain.  Ko  liberties  have  been 
taken  with  the  order  of  the  Scripture  narrative,  al- 
though a  few  subordinate  characters  have  here  and  there 
been  introduced  to  complete  the  action.  The  author 
seems  either  to  lack  the  inventive  faculty,  or  to  have 
feared  modifying  the  sacred  record  for  the  purposes  of 


THE  AUTHOR   OF  ''SAUL,**  121 

Art.  In  fact,  no  considerable  modification  was  neces* 
eary.  The  simple  narrative  fulfils  almost  all  the  re- 
quirements of  dramatic  writing,  in  its  succession  of 
striking  situations,  and  its  cumulative  interest.  From 
beginning  to  end,  however,  Mr.  Heavysege  makes  no 
attempt  to  produce  a  dramatic  effect.  It  is  true  that 
he  has  availed  himself  of  the  phrase  "an  evil  spirit 
from  the  Lord,"  to  introduce  a  demoniac  element,  but, 
singularly  enough,  the  demons  seem  to  appear  and  to 
act  unwillingly,  and  manifest  great  relief  when  they  are 
allowed  to  retire  from  the  stage, 

The  work,  therefore,  cannot  be  measured  by  dra- 
matic laws.  It  is  an  epic  in  dialogue ;  its  chief  charm 
lies  in  the  march  of  the  story  and  the  detached  indi* 
vidual  monologues,  rather  than  in  contrast  of  charactera 
or  exciting  situations.  The  sense  of  proportion — the 
latest  developed  quality  of  the  poetic  mind — is  dimly 
manifested.  The  structure  of  the  verse,  sometimes  so 
stately  and  majestic,  is  frequently  disfigured  by  the 
commonest  faults ;  yet  the  breath  of  a  lofty  purpose  has 
been  breathed  upon  every  page.  The  personality  of 
the  author  never  pierces  through  his  them  3.  The  lan- 
guage is  fresh,  racy,  vigorous,  and  utterly  free  from 
the  impress  of  modem  masters:  much  of  It  might 
have  been  written  by  a  contemporary  of  Shakespeare. 

In  the  opening  of  the  first  part,  Saul,  recently 
anointed  king,  receives  the  messengers  of  Jabesh  Gilead, 
and  promises  succor.    A  messenger  says: — 


122  ESSAYS  AI/D  NOTES.  * 

**Tha  wind!  of  hearflo 
Behind  the«  blow  i  and  on  our  enomlot*  oyei, 
May  tho  lun  •mlto  to-morrow^  and  blind  thorn  for  thM  t 
But,  0  Saul,  do  not  fail  ui. 
''Saut,  FaUye! 

Lot  the  morn  fail  to  break  ;  I  will  not  break 
My  word.    IlaHto,  or  Fm  there  before  you.    Fallt 
Let  tho  morn  full  tlie  oust ;  Til  not  foil  yott ; 
But,  swift  and  silent  as  tho  streaming  wind, 
Unseen  approach,  then,  gathering  up  my  force 
At  dawning,  sweep  on  Ammon,  as  Night's  blast 
Sweeps  down  from  Carmel  on  tho  dusky  sea.** 


This  is  a  fino  picture  of  Saul  etccllng  his  nature  to 
cruelty,  when  he  has  reluctantly  resolved  to  obey  Sam- 
nel's  command  "to  trample  out  the  living  fire  of 
Amalek  *' : — 

•*Now  let  me  tighten  every  cruel  sinew, 
And  gird  the  whole  up  in  unfeeling  hardness, 
That  my  swollen  heart,  which  bleeds  within  me  tears, 
May  choke  itself  to  stillness.    I  am  as 
A  shivering  bather,  that,  upon  the  shore. 
Looking  and  shrinking  from  the  cold,  black  waves, 
Quick  starting  from  his  reverie,  with  a  rush 
Abbreviates  his  horror.** 


And  this  of  the  satisfied  hist  of  blood,  uttered  by 
a  Hebrew  soldier,  after  the  slaughter:— 


THE  AUTHOR   OF  **SAC/L:*  128 

«•  When  I  was  killing,  such  thoughts  cam©  to  me,  like 
The  sound  of  cleft-dropped  waters  to  the  ear 
Of  the  hot  mower,  who  thereat  stops  the  oftener 
To  whet  his  glittering  scythe,  and,  while  he  smiles,  | 
With  the  harsh,  sharpening  hone  beats  their  fairs  time 
And  dancing  to  it  in  his  heart's  straight  chamber,  • 
Forgets  that  he  is  weary." 

After  the  execution  of  Agag  by  the  hand  of  Sam- 
uel, the  demons  are  introduced  with  more  propriety  than 
in  the  opening  of  the  poem.  The  following  passage  has 
a  subtle,  sombre  grandeur  of  its  own:— 

*^Firit  Demon,    Now  let  us  down  to  hell :  we  've  seen  the  last 
♦♦  Second  Demon,    Stay  ;  for  the  road  thereto  is  yet  incumbered 
With  the  descending  spectres  of  the  killed. 
'T  is  said  they  choke  hell's  gates,  and  stretch  from  thence 
Out  like  a  tongue  upon  the  silent  gulf  ; 
Wherein  our  spirits — even  as  terrestrial  ships 
That  are  detained  by  foul  winds  in  an  offing- 
Linger  perforce,  and  feel  broad  gusts  of  sighs 
That. swing  them  on  the  dark  and  billowless  waste, 
O'er  which  come  sounds  more  dismal  than  the  boom, 
At  midnight,  of  the  salt  flood's  foaming  surf,-— 
Even  dead  Amalek's  moan  and  lamentation." 

The  reader  will  detect  the  rhythmical  faults  of  the 
poem,  even  in  these  passages.  But  there  is  a  yast  dif; 
ference  between  such  blemishes  of  the  unrhymed  he- 
roic measure  as  terminating  a  line  with  "and,"  "of," 
or  ^<  bat|"  or  inattention  to  the  ceeeural  pauses,  uid  that 


124  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

mathematical  precision  of  foot  and  accent,  which)  after 
all,  can  scarcely  be  distingnished  from  prose.  What* 
ever  may  be  his  shortcomings,  Mr.  Heavysege  speaks 
in  the  dialect  of  poetry.  Only  rarely  he  drops  into 
bald  prose,  as  in  these  lines  t — 

*'But  let  us  go  abroad,  and  in  the  twllight*s 
Cool,  tranquillizing  air  discuBS  this  matter.** 

We  remember,  however,  that  Wordsworth  wrote, 

**A  band  of  officers 
Then  stationed  in  the  city  were  among  the  chief 
Of  my  associates.** 

We  have  marked  many  other  fine  passages  of 
"Saul"  for  quotation,  but  must  be  content  with  a  few 
of  those  which  are  most  readily  separated  from  the 
context* 

•* Ha!  hat  the  foe, 
Having  taken  from  us  our  warlike  tools,  yet  leave  ut 
The  little  scarlet  tongue  to  scratch  and  sting  with.** 

"Here's  lad*s-love,  and  the  flower  which  even  death 
Cannot  unscent,  the  all-transcending  rose.** 

**The  loud  bugle, 
«        And  the  hard-rolling  drum,  and  clashing  cymbals, 
Now  reign  the  lords  o*  the  air.    These  crises,  David, 
Bring  with  them  their  own  music,  as  do  storms 
Their  thunders.** 


THE  AUTHOR   OF  *'SAUL:'  125 

**Ere  the  morn 
Shall  tint  the  orient  with  the  soldier's  color, 
We  must  be  at  the  camp." 

**But  come,  I  Ul  disappoint  thee  ;  for,  remember, 
Samuel  will  not  be  roused  for  thee,  although 
I  knock  with  thunder  at  his  resting-place." 

The  lyrical  portions  of  the  work — introduced  in  con- 
nection with  the  demoniac  chjiractere  —  are  inferior  to 
the  rest.  They  have  occasionally  a  quaint,  antique 
flavor,  suggesting  the  diction  of  the  Elizabethan  lyrists, 
but  without  their  delicate,  elusive  richness  of  melody. 
Here  most  we  perceive  the  absence  of  that  highest, 
ripest  intellectual  culture  which  can  be  acquired  only 
through  contact  and  conflict  with  other  minds.  It  is 
not  good  for  a  poet  to  bo  alone.  Even  where  the  con- 
Btructive  faculty  is  absent,  its  place  may  be  supplied 
through  the  development  of  that  artistic  sense  which 
files,  weighs,  and  adjusts, — which  reconciles  the  utmost 
freedom  and  force  of  thought  with  the  mechanical  sym- 
metries of  language, — and  which,  first  a  fetter  to  the 
impatient  mind,  becomes  at  length  a  pinion,  holding  it 
serenely  poised  in  the  highest  ether.  Only  the  rudi- 
ment of  the  sense  is  bom  with  the  poet,  and  few  lite- 
rary lives  are  fortunate  enough,  or  of  sufficiently  varied 
experience,  to  mature  it 

Nevertheless,  .before   closing   the   volume,  we  must 
quote  what  we  consider  to  be  the  author's  best  lyrical 


126  £SSAyS  AffD  NOTES. 

paBsage*     Zaph,   one  of  the  attendants  of  Malzah,  the . 
"evil  spirit  from  the  Lord,'*  aings  aa  follows  to  one  of 
his  fellows: — 

"Zepho,  the  sun^s  descended  beam 
Hath  laid  his  rod  on  th*  ocean  stream, 
And  this  overhanging  wood-top  nods  ' 

Like  golden  helms  of  drowny  gods. 
Methlnks  tlmt  now  V\\  stretch  for  rest, 
With  eyelids  sloping  toward  the  west ; 
That,  through  their  half  transparencies^ 
The  rosy  radiance  passed  and  strained, 
Of  mote  and  vapor  duly  drained, 
I  may  U'liovo,  in  hollow  bllw, 
My  rest  in  the  empyrean  is. 
Watch  thou  ;  and  when  up  comes  the  mooDf 
Atowards  her  turn  me ;  and  then,  boon, 
Thyself  compose,  *ncath  wavering  leaves 
That  hang  these  branched,  majcstio  cavot  t 
That  so,  with  Mi*lMm|K)Mud  deceit, 
Both,  in  this  halcyon  retreat, 
By  trance  possessed,  imagine  may 
We  couch  in  Heaven's  night-argent  ray.** 

In  1800  Mr.  IToavyBogo  published  by  subscription  a 
drama  entitled  "Count  Filippo,  or  the  Unequal  Mar- 
riage.** This  work,  of  which  we  have  seen  but  one 
critical  notice,  added  nothing  to  his  reputation-  His 
genius,  as  we  have  already  remarked,  is  not  dramatic; 
and    there  is.  moreover,  internal  evidence  that  "Count 


THE   AUTHOR   OF  *' SAVU*  127 

Filippo'*  did  not  grow,  like  "Saul,"  from  an  idea 
wliicli  took  forcible  possession  of  tlie  author's'  mind. 
The  plot  is  not  original,  the  action  languid,  and  the. 
very  names  of  the  dramatis  personm  convey  an  impres- 
sion of  unreality,  Though  we  know  there  never  was  a 
Duke  of  Pereza  in  Italy,  this  annoys  us  less  than  that 
ho  should  bear  such  a  fantastic  name  as  "Tremohla"; 
nor  does  the  feminine  "Yolina"  inspire  us  with  much 
respect  for  the  heroine.  The  characters  are  intellectual 
abstractions,  rather  than  creatures  of  flesh  and  blood; 
and  their  lovo,  sorrow  and  remorse  fail  to  stir  our  sym* 
pathies.  They  have  an  incorrigible  habit  of  speaking 
in  conceits.  As  "Saul"  is  pervaded  with  the  spirit  of 
the  Elizabethan  writers,  so  "Count  Filippo"  suggests 
the  artificial  manner  of  the  rivals  of  Dryden.  It  is  the 
work  of  a  poet,  but  of  a  poet  working  from  a  mechani- 
cal impulse.  There  are  very  fine  single  passages,  but 
the  general  effect  is  marred  by  the  constant  rdomrdncd 
of  Buoh  forced  metaphors  as  these:-— 


«*  Now  shall  the  he-goat,  black  Adultery, 
With  the  roused  ram,  Retaliation,  twine 
Their  horns  in  one  to  butt  at  Filippo." 

<*  As  the  salamander,  cast  in  fire, 
Exudes  preserving  mucus,  so  my  mind, 
Cased  in  thick  satisfaction  of  success, 
BhaU  be  uninjured,** 


128  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

The  work,  nevertheless,  appears  to  have  had  some 
share  in  improving  its  author's  fortunes.  From  that 
time,  he  has  received  at  least  a  partial  recognition  in 
Canada.  Soon  after  its  publication,  he  succeeded  in 
procuring  employment  on  the  daily  newspaper  press  of 
Montreal,  which  enabled  him  to  give  up  his  uncongen- 
ial labor  at  the  work-bench.  The  Montreal  Literary 
Club  elected  him  one  of  its  Fellows,  and  the  short-lived 
literary  periodicals  of  the  Province  no  longer  ignored 
his  existence.  In  spite  of  a  change  of  circumstances 
which  must  have  given  him  greater  leisure,  as  well  as 
better  opportunities  of  culture,  he  has  published  but 
two  poems  in  the  last  five  years, — an  Ode  for  the  ter- 
centenary  anniversary  of  Shakespeare's  birth,  and  the 
sacred  idyl  of  "  Jephthah's  Daughter.'*  The  former  is 
a  production  the  spirit  of  which  is  worthy  of  its  occa* 
eion,  although,  in  execution,  it  is  weakened  by  an  over- 
plus of  imagery  and  epithet,  It  contains  between 
seven  and  eight  hundred  lines.  The  grand,  ever-chang- 
ing music  of  the  ode  will  not  bear  to  be  prolonged 
beyond  a  certain  point,  as  all  the  great  Masters  of  Song 
have  discovered  x  the  ear  must  not  be  allowed  to  be- 
come quite  accustomed  to  the  surprises  of  the  varrying 
rhythm,  before  the  closing  Alexandrine. 

"Jephthah's  Daughter"  contains  between  thirteen 
and  fourteen  hundred  lines.  In  careful  finish,  in  sus- 
tained sweetness  and  grace,  and  solemn  dignity  of  lan- 
guage, it  is  a  marked  advance  upon  any  of  the  author's 


THE   AUTHOR    OF   » SAUir  129 

previous  works.  We  notice,  indeed,  the  same  technical 
faults  as  in  "  Saul,"  but  they  occur  less  frequently,  and 
may  be  altogether  corrected  in  a  later  revision  of  the 
l)Ocm.  Hero,  also,  the  Scriptural  narrative  is  rigidly 
followed,  and  every  temptation  to  adorn  its  rare  sim- 
plicity resisted.  Even  that  lament  of  the  Ilobrew  girl, 
behind  which  there  seems  to  lurk  a  romance,  and 
which  is  so  exquisitely  paraphrased  by  Tennyson,  in 
his  "Dream  of  Fair  "Women," — 

"  And  I  went  mourning  j   *  No  fair  Hebrew  boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame  among 
The  Hebrew  mothers,'" — 

is  barely  mentioned  in  the  words  of  the  text.  The 
passion  of  Jephthah,  the  horror,  the  piteous  pleading  of 
his  wife  and  daughter,  and  the  final  submission  of  the 
latter  to  her  doom,  are  elaborated  with  a  careful  and 
tender  hand.  From  the  opening  to  the  closing  line, 
the  reader  is  lifted  to  the  level  of  the  tragic  theme, 
and  inspired,  as  in  the  Greek  tragedy,  with  a  pity 
which  makes  lovely  the  element  of  terror.  The  cen- 
tral sentiment  of  the  poem,  through  all  its  touching 
and  sorrowful  changes,  is  that  of  repose.  Observe  tho 
grave  harmony  of  the  opening  lines:— 

•«T  was  in  the  olden  days  of  Israel, 
When  from  her  people  rose  up  mighty  men 
To  judge  and  to  defend  her  ;  ere  she  knew, 


i 


laO  £SSjfy$  AND  NOTES. 

*  Or  clamored  for,  her  coming  line  of  kingii 

A  father,  rashly  vowing,  sacrificed 
His  daughter  on  the  altar  of  the  Lord; — 
'T  was  in  those  ancient  days,  coeval  deemed 
With  the  song-famous  and  heroic  ones, 
When  Agamemnon,  taught  divinely,  doomed 
JTm  daughter  to  expire  at  Dianas  shrine, — 
Bo  doomed,  to  free  the  chivalry  of  Greece, 
In  Aulis  lingering  for  a  favoring  wind 
To  waft  them  to  the  fated  walls  of  Troy. 
Two  songs  with  but  one  burden,  twin-like  tales* 
Sad  talcs  !   but  this  the  sadder  of  the  twain,— 
This  song,  a  wail  more  desolately  wild  ; 
More  fraught  this  story  with  grim  fate  fulfilled.** 

The  length  to  which  this  article  has  grown  warns 
116  to  be  sparing  of  quotations,  but  we  all  the  more 
earnestly  recommend  those  in  whom  we  may  have  in- 
spired some  interest  in  the  author  to  procure  the  poem 
for  themselves.  We  have  perused  it  several  times, 
with  increasing  enjoyment  of  its  solemn  diction,  its 
Bad,  monotonous  music,  and  with  the  hope  that  the  few 
repairing  touches,  which  alone  are  wanting  to  make  it  a 
perfect  work  of  its  class,  may  yet  be  given.  This  pas- 
sage, for  example,  where  Jephthah  prays  to  be  absolved 
from  his  vow,  would  be  faultlessly  eloquent,  but  for  the 
prosaic  connection  of  the  first  and  the  second  lines:— 

"  *  Choose  Tabor  for  thine  altar  :  I  will  pile 
It  with  the  choice  of  Bashan's  lusty  herds, 


THB  AUTHOR   OF  **  SAUL.**  181 

And  flocks  of  fatlings,  and  for  fuel^  thither 
WiU  hring  umbrageous  Lebanon  to  burn.^ 

1^     '  m  *  4* 

*'He  said,  and  stood  awaiting  for  the  sign, 
And  heard,  above  the  hoarse,  bough-bending  wind^ 
The  hill-wolf  howling  on  the  neighboring  height, 
And  bittern  booming  in  the  pool  below. 
Borne  drops  of  rain  fell  from  the  passing  cloud 
That  sudden  hides  the  wanly  shining  moon. 
And  from  the  scabbard  instant  dropped  his  sword, 
And,  with  long,  living  leaps,  and  rock-struck  clang, 
From  side  to  side,  and  slope  to  sounding  slope. 
In  gleaming  whirls  swept  down  the  dim  ravine," 

Tho  finest  portion  of  tlio  poem  is  tho  description 
of  that  transition  of  feeling,  through  which  the  maiden, 
wann  with  young  life  and  clinging  to  life  for  its  own 
unfulfilled  promise,  becomes  the  resigned  and  composed 
victim.  No  one  but  a  true  poet  could  have  so  con- 
ceived and  represented  the  situation.  The  narrative 
flows  in  one  unbroken  current,  detached  parts  whereof 
hint  but  imperfectly  of  the  whole,  as  do  goblets  of 
water  of  the  stream  wherefrom  they  are  dipped.  We 
will  only  venture  to  present  two  brief  passages.  The 
daughter  speaks:— 

*'Let  me  not  need  now  disobey  you,  mother, 
But  give  me  leave  to  knock  at  Death^a  pale  gate, 
Whereat  indeed  I  must,   by  duty  drawn, 
By  Nature  shown  the  sacred  way  to  yield. 


132  SSSAYS  ASD  NOTES. 

Behold,  the  coasting  cloud  obeys  the  breese  \ 

The  slanting  smoke,  the  invisible  sweet  air ; 

The  towering  tree  its  leafy  limbs  resigns 

To  the  embraces  of  the  wilful  wind  : 

Shall  I,  then,  wrong,  resist  the  hand  of  Heaven  f 

Take  me,  my  father  1  take,  accept  me.  Heaven  t 

Slay  me  or  save  me,  even  as  you  will." 

"  Light,  light,  I  leave  thee  !~yet  am  I  a  lamp, 
Extinguished  now,  to  be  relit  forever. 
Life  dies  :  but  in  its  stead  death  lives.'* 

In  "  Jeplitliah'fl  Daughter,**  (published  In  1865,)  we 
think  Mr.  HoavjBege  has  found  that  fonn  of  poetic 
utterance  for  which  his  genius  is  naturally  qualifled. 
It  is  difficult  to  guess  the  future  of  a  literary  life  bo 
exceptional  hitherto, — difficult  to  affirm,  without  a  more 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  man's  nature,  whether  he 
is  capable  of  achieving  that  rhythmical  perfection  (in 
the  higher  sense  wherein  sound  becomes  the  symmet- 
rical garment  of  thought)  which,  in  poets,  marks  the 
line  between  imperfect  and  complete  success.  "WTiat 
ho  most  needs,  of  external  culture,  we  have  already 
indicated;  if  we  might  be  allowed  any  further  sug* 
gestion,  he  supplies  it  himself,  in  one  of  his  fragmen- 
tary poems  J 

•'Open,  my  heart,  thy  ruddy  valves,— 
It  is  thy  master  calls  \ 
Let  me  go  down,  and,  curious,  traoo 
Thy  labyrinthine  halls. 


THE  AUTHOR   OF  *' SAUL:*  ^88 

Opon,  0  heart  I  and  let  me  view 

The  secrets  of  thy  den  : 
Myself  unto  myself  now  show 

With  introspective  ken. 
Expose  thyself,  thou  covered  nest. 

Of  passions,  and  be  seen  : 
8tir  up  thy  t»rood,  that  in  unrest 

Are  ever  piping  keen  : — 
Ah  !  what  a  motley  multitude, 

Magnanimous  and  mean  I  ** 


OOTOBXB,  1865. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THAOEBRAT. 

WHEN  the  great  master  of  English  prose  left  ns 
suddenly  in  the  maturity  of  his  powers,  with 
his  enduring  position  in  literature  fairly  won  and  recog- 
nized, his  death  saddened  us  rather  through  the  sense 
of  our  own  loss  than  from  the  tragic  regret  which  is 
associated  with  an  unaccomplished  destiny.  More  for^ 
tunate  than  Fielding,  he  was  allowed  to  take  the  meas* 
ure  of  his  permanent  fame.  The  niche  wherein  he 
shall  henceforth  stand  was  chiselled  while  he  lived. 
One  by  one  the  doubters  confessed  their  reluctant  faith, 
unfriendly  critics  dropped  their  blunted  steel,  and  no 
man  dared  to  deny  him  the  place  which  was  his,  and 
his  only,  by  right  of  genius. 

In  one  sense,  however,  he  was  misunderstood  by 
the  world,  and  he  has  died  before  that  profounder  rec- 
ognition which  he  craved  had  time  to  mature.  All 
the  breadth  and  certainty  of  his  fame  failed  to  com- 
pensate him  for  the  lack  of  this;  the  man's  heart 
coveted  that  justice  which  was  accorded  only  to  the 
author's  brain.     Other  pens    may  sum   up  the  literary 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    Til  ACKER  AY,  135 

record  he  has  left  behind :  I  claim  the  right  of  a  friend 
who  knew  and  loved  him  to  speak  of  him  as  a  man. 
The  testimony  which,  while  living,  he  was  too  proud 
to  have  desired,  may  now  be  laid  reverently  upon  his 
grave. 

I  made  Thackeray's  acquaintance  in  New  York  to- 
wards the  close  of  the  year  1855.  With  the  first  grasp 
of  his  broad  hand,  and  the  first  look  of  his  large, 
serious  gray  eyes,  I  received  an  impression  of  the  es- 
sential manliness  of  his  nature, — of  his  honesty,  his 
proud,  almost  defiant  candor,  his  ever-present,  yet 
shrinking  tenderness,  and  that  sadness  of  the  moral  sen- 
timent which  the  world  persisted  in  regarding  as  cyni- 
cism. This  impression  deepened  with  my  further  ac- 
quaintance, and  was  never  modified.  Although  he  be- 
longed to  the  sensitive,  irritable  genus,  his  only  mani- 
festations of  impatience,  which  I  remember  were  when 
that  which  he  had  written  with  a  sigh  was  interpreted 
as  a  sneer.  When  so  misunderstood,  he  scorned  to  set 
himself  right.  "  I  have  no  brain  above  the  eyes,"  he 
was  accustomed  to  say;  "I  describe  what  I  see."  He 
was  quick  and  unerring  in  detecting  the  weaknesses  of 
his  friends,  and  spoke  of  them  with  a  tone  of  dis- 
appointment sometimes  bordering  on  exasperation:  but 
ho  was  equally  severe  upon  his  own  short-comings. 
He  allowed  no  friend  to  think  him  better  than  his  own 
deliberate  estimate  made  him.  I  have  never  known  a 
man  whose  nature  was  bo  unmovably  based  on  tmth. 


186  BSiAYS  AND  NOTES. 

In  a  converBation  upon  the  United  States,  shortly 
after  we  first  met,  he  said:— 

"There  is  one  thing  in  this  country  which  astonishes 
me.    You  have  a  capacity  for  culture  which  contradicts 

all  my  experience.    There  are  "   (mentioning  two 

or  three  names  well  known  in  New  York)  "  who  I 
know  have  arisen  from  nothing,  yet  they  are  fit  for  any 
society  in  the  world.  They  would  be  just  as  self-pos- 
sessed and  entertaining  in  the  presence  of  stars  and 
garters  as  they  are  here  to-night.  Now,  in  England,  a 
man  who  has  made  his  way  up,  as  they  have,  does  not 
seem  able  to  feel  his  social  dignity.  A  little  bit  of  the 
flunky  sticks  in  him  somewhere.  I  am,  perhaps,  as  in- 
dependent in  this  respect  as  any  one  I  know,  yet  I  am 
not  entirely  sure  of  myself.'* 

"Do  you  remember,'*  I  asked  him,  "what  Goethe 
says  of  the  boys  in  Venice?  He  explains  their  clever- 
ncss,  grace,  and  self-possession  as  children  by  the  possi- 
bility of  any  one  of  them  becoming  Doge.'* 

"  That  may  be  the  secret,  after  all,"  said  Thackeray. 
"  There  is  no  country  like  yours  for  a  young  man  who 
is  obliged  to  work  for  his  own  place  and  fortune.  If 
I  had  sons,  I  should  send  them  here." 

Afterwards,  in  London,  I  visited  with  him  the 
studio  of  Baron  Marochetti,  the  sculptor,  who  was  then 
his  next-door  neighbor  in  Onslow  Square,  Brompton. 
The  Baron,  it  appeared,  had  promised  him  an  original 
wood-cut  of  Albert  Diirer's  for  whom  Thackeray  had 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY.  137 

a  special  admiration.  Soon  after  our  entrance,  the 
sculptor  took  down  a  small  engraving  from  the  wall, 
saying  :— 

"Now  you  have  it,  at  last." 

The  subject  was  St.  George  and  the  Dragon, 

Thackeray  inspected  it  with  great  delight  for  a  few 
minutes:  then,  suddenly  becoming  grave,  he  turned  to 
me  and  said  ; — 

"I  shall  hang  it  near  the  head  of  my  bed,  where 
I  can  see  it  every  morning.  We  all  have  our  dragons 
to  fight.  Do  you  know  yours?  I  know  mine:  I  have 
not  one,  but  two." 

"What  are  they?"  I  asked, 

"  Indolence  and  Luxury  1 " 

I  could  not  help  smiling,  as  I  thought  of  the  pro^ 
digious  amount  of  literary  labor  he  had  performed,  and 
at  the  same  time  remembered  the  simple  comfort  of 
his  dwelling,  next  door. 

"I  am  serious,"  ho  continued;  "I  never  take  up 
the  pen  without  an  effort ;  I  work  only  from  necessity, 
I  never  walk  out  without  seeing  some  pretty,  useless 
thing  which  I  want  to  buy.  Sometimes  I  pass  the 
same  shop-window  every  day  for  months,  and  resist 
the  temptation,  and  think  I  'm  safe;  then  comes  the 
day  of  weakness,  and  I  yield.  My  physician  tells  mo 
I  must  live  very  simply,  and  not  dine  out  so  much; 
but  I  cannot  break  off  the  agreeable  habit    I  shall  look 


188  ESSAYS  AjirD  //oi'Es. 

at  this  picture  and  think  of  my  dragons^  though  I  don't 
expect  ever  to  overcome  them." 

After   his  four  lectures    on  the  Georges  had  been 
delivered  in  New  York,  a  storm  of  angry  abuse  was  let 
loose  upon  him  in  Canada  and  the  other  British  Prov- 
inces*    The  British-Americans,  snubbed   both  by  Gov- 
ernment and  society  when  they  go  to  England,  repay 
the  slight,  like   true  Christians,  by  a  rampant  loyality 
unknown  in  the  mother-country.    Many  of  their   news- 
papers accused    Thackeray  of    pandering  to  the  preju- 
dices of  the  American  public,  affirming  that  he  would 
not  dare  to  repeat  the  same  lectures  in  England,   after 
his  return.     Of  course,  the  papers  containing  the  arti- 
cles,   duly  marked    to  attract    attention,    were  sent    to 
him.    lie  merely  remarked,  as  he  threw  them  contemp- 
tuously aside : — "  These  fellows  will  see  that  I  shall  not 
only  repeat  the  lectures  at  home,  but  I  shall  make  them 
more  severe,  just  because  the  auditors  will  be  English- 
men."    He   was  true  to   his   promise.     The  lecture   on 
George  IV.   excited,    not  indeed  the  same    amount  of 
newspaper   abuse  as  he  had   received  from  Canada,   but 
a  very  angry   feeling   in  the  English  aristocracy,   some 
members  of  which  attempted  to  punish  him  by  a  social 
ostracism.     When   I   visited   him  in   London,    in    July, 
1856,    he  related  this  to  me,    with  great  good-humor. 
"  There,  for  instance,"  said  he,   "  Lord  "  (a  prom- 
inent  English  statesman)   "who  has  dropped  me  from 
his  dinner  parties  for  three  months  past.     AVell,  he  will 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY.  139 

find  that  I  can  do  without  his  society  better  than  he 
can  do  without  mine."  A  few  days  afterwards  Lord 
resumed  his  invitations. 

About  the  same  time  I  witnessed  an  amusing  in- 
terview, which  explained  to  mo  the  gi*eat  personal  re- 
spect in  which  Thackeray  was  held  by  the  anstocratic 
class.  He  never  hesitated  to  mention  and  comment 
upon  the  censure  aimed  against  hina  in  tlie  presence  of 
him  who  had  uttered  it,  Ilis  fearless  frankness  must 
have    seemed    phenomenal.     In    the    present    instance, 

Lord ,  who  had  dabbled  in  literature,  and  held  a 

position  at  Court,  had  expressed  himself  (I  forget 
whether  orally  or  in  print)  very  energetically  against 
Thackeray's  picture  of  George  lY.  We  had  occasion 
to  enter   the  shop  of  a    fashionable  tailor,  and  there 

found  Lord  .  Thackeray  immediately  stepped  up  to 

him,  bent  his  strong  frame  over  the  disconcerted 
champion  of  the  Royal  George,  and  said,  in  his  full, 
clear,  mellow  voice,  "I  know  what  you  have  said.  Of 
course,  you  are  quite  right,  and  I  am  wrong.  I  only 
regret  that  I  did  not  think  of  consulting  you  before 
my  lecture  was  written."  The  person  addressed  evi- 
dently did  not  know  whether  to  take  this  for  irony  or 
truth:  he  stammered  out  an  incoherent  reply,  and 
seemed  greatly  relieved  when  the  giant  turned  to  leave 
the  shop. 

At  other  times,  however,  he  was  kind  and  consider- 
ate.   Beaching  London  one  day  in  June,  1857|  I  found 


140  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

him  at  home,  grave  and  sad,  having  that  moment  re- 
turned from  the  funeral  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  He  spoke 
of  the  periodical  attacks  by  which  his  own  life'  was 
threatened,  and  repeated  what  he  had  often  said  to  me 
before, — "I  shall  go  some  day, — perhaps  in  a  year  or 
two.  I  am  an  old  man  already."  He  proposed  visiting 
a  lady  whom  we  both  knew,  but  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  some  time.  The  lady  reminded  him  of  this 
fact,  and  expressed  her  dissatisfaction  at  length.  He 
heard  her  in  silence,  and  then  taking  hold  of  the  crape 
on  his  left  arm,  said,  in  a  grave,  quiet  voice, — "I 
must  remove  this, — I  have  just  come  from  poor  Jer- 
rold^s  grave." 

Although  from  his  experience  of  life,  he  was  com- 
pletely d^sillusionnif  the  well  of  natural  tenderness  was 
never  dried  in  his  heart.  Ho  rejoiced,  with  a  fresh, 
boyish  delight,  in  every  evidence  of  an  unspoiled  nature 
in  others, — in  every  utterance  which  denoted  what  may 
have  Boomed  to  him  over-faith  in  the  good.  The  more 
he  was  saddened  by  his  knowledge  of  human  weakness 
and  folly,  the  more  gratefully  he  welcomed  strength, 
virtue,  sincerityi  His  eyes  never  unlearned  the  habit 
of  that  quick  moisture  which  honors  the  true  word  and 
the  noble  deed. 

His  mind  was  always  occupied  with  some  scheme  of 
quiet  benevolence.  Both  in  America  and  in  England, 
I  have  known  him  to  plan  ways  by  which  he  could 
give  pecuniary  assistance  to  some  needy  acquaintance  or 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY.  141 

countryman  without  wounding  his  sensitive  pride.  He 
made  many  attempts  to  procure  a  good  situation  in 
New  York  for  a  well-knowu  English  author,  who  was 
at  that  time  in  straitened  circumstances.  The  latter, 
probably,  never  knew  of  this  effort  to  help  him.  In 
November,  1857,  when  the  financial  crisis  in  America 
was  at  its  height,  I  happened  to  say  to  him,  playfully, 
that  I  hoped  my  remittances  would  not  be  stopped. 
He  instantly  picked  up  a  note-book,  ran  over  the 
leaves,  and  said  to  me,  "  I  find  I  have  three  hundred 
pounds  at  my  banker's.  Take  the  money  now,  if  you 
are  in  want  of  it ;  or  shall  I  keep  it  for  you,  in  case 
you  may  need  it?"  Fortunately,  I  had  no  occasion  to 
avail  myself  of  his  generous  offer;  but  I  shall  never 
forget  the  impulsive,  open-hearted  kindness  with  which 
it  was  made. 

I  have  had  personal  experience  of  Thackeray's  sense 
of  justice,  as  well  as  his  generosity.  And  here  let  me 
say  that  he  was  that  rarest  of  men,  a  cosmopolitan 
Englishman, — ^loving  his  own  land  with  a  sturdy,  en- 
during love,  yet  blind  neither  to  its  faults  nor  to  the 
virtues  of  other  lands.  In  fact,  for  the  very  reason 
that  he  was  unsparing  in  dealing  with  his  countrymen, 
he  considered  himself  justified  in  freely  criticizing 
other  nations.  Yet  he  never  joined  in  the  popular  de- 
preciation of  everything  American;  his  principal  reason 
•for  not  writing  a  book,  as  every  other  English  author 
does  who    visits  us,  was  that  it  would  be   superficial, 


142  SSS^ys  AND  NOTES. 

and  might  be  tinjuBt.  I  have  seen  him,  in  America, 
indignantly  resent  an  ill-natured  sneer  at  "  John  Bull,'* 
•—and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  have  known  him  to  take 
our  part,  at  home.  Shortly  after  Emerson's  **  English 
Traits"  appeared,  I  Was  one  of  a  dinner-party  at  his 
house,  and  the  book  was  the  principal  topic  of  conver- 
sation. A  member  of  Parliament  took  the  opportunity 
of  expressing  his  views  to  the  only  American  present. 

"What  does  Emerson  know  of  England?"  he  asked. 
"  He  spends  a  few  weeks  here,  and  thinks  he  under- 
stands us.  His  work  is  false  and  prejudiced  and  shal- 
low." 

Thackeray  happening  to  pass  at  the  moment,  the 
member  arrested  him  with— 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  book,  Mr.  Thack- 
eray ? " 

"I  don't  agree  with  Emerson.'* 

"I  was  sure  you  would  notl"  the  member  triumph- 
antly exclaimed;  "I  was  sure  you  would  think  as  I 
do." 

"I  think,'*  said  Thackeray,  quietly,  "that  he  is  alto- 
gether too  laudatory.  He  admires  our  best  qualities  so 
greatly  that  he  does  not  scourge  us  for  our  faults  as  we 
deserve." 

Towards  the  end  of  May,  1861,  I  saw  Thackeray 
again  in  London.  During  our  first  interview,  we  talked 
of  little  but  the  war,  wliich  had  then  just  begun.  His 
chief  feeling  on  the  subject  was  a  profound  regret,  not 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY.  I43 

only  for  the  nation  itself,  whose  fate  seemed  thus  to  be 
placed  in  jeopardy,  but  also,  ho  said,  because  he  had 
many  dear  friends,  both  North  and  South,  who  must 
now  fight  as  enemies.  I  soon  found  that  his  ideas  con- 
ceniing  the  cause  of  the  war  were  as  incorrect  as  wero 
those  of  most  Englishmen  at  that  time.  IIo  understood 
neither  the  real  nature  nor  the  extent  of  the  conspiracy, 
supposing  that  Free  Trade  was  the  chief  object  of  the 
South,  and  that  the  nght  of  Secession  was  tacitly  ad* 
mitted  by  the  Constitution,  I  thereupon  endeavored  to 
place  the  facts  of  the  case  before  him  in  their  true 
light,  saying,  in  conclusion  : — "  Even  if  you  sliould  not 
believe  this  statement,  you  must  admit,  that,  if  we  be- 
lieve it,  we  are  justified  in  suppressing  the  Eebellion  by 
force." 

He  said  : — "  Come,  all  this  is  exceedingly  interesting. 
It  is  quite  new  to  me,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  new  to 
most  of  us.  Take  yolir  pen  and  make  an  article  out  of 
what  you  have  told  me,  and  I  will  put  it  into  the  next 
number  of  the  *Cornhill  Magazine.'  It  is  just  what  we 
want." 

I  had  made  preparations  to  leave  London  for  the 
Continent  on  the  following  day,  but  he  was.  eo  urgent 
that  I  should  stay  two  days  longer  and  write  the*  article 
that  I  finally  consented  to  do  bo.  I  was  the  more  de- 
sirous of  complying,  since  Mr.  Clay's  ill-advised  letter 
to  the  London  "Times"  had  recently  been  published, 
and  was  accepted  by  Englishmea  as  the  substance  of  all 


144  £SSAVS  ANt>  NOTES. 

that  could  be  said  on  the  side  of  the  UnioiL  Thackeray 
appeared  Bincorely  gratified  by  my  compliance  with  his 
M'iHhofl,  and  immodiutoly  sent  for  a  cab,  saying:— "Now 
wo  will  go  down  to  the  publiehors,  and  have  the  mat- 
ter settled  at  once.  I  am  bound  to  consult  them,  but 
I  am  sure  they  will  see  the  advantage  of  such  an  arti- 
clo/> 

"We  found  the  managing  publiHhor  in  his  ofHco.  lie 
looked  U2>on  the  mutter,  however,  in  a  very  different 
light.  lie  admitted  the  interest  which  a  statement  of 
the  character,  growth,  and  extent  of  the  Southern  Con- 
spiracy would  poHHCHH  for  the  readors  of  the  "Cornhill,** 
but  objected  to  itn  publication,  on  the  ground  that  it 
would  call  forth  a  counter-statement,  which  ho  could 
not  justly  exclude,  and  thus  introduce  a  political  contro- 
versy into  the  magazine.  I  insisted  that  my  object  was 
not  to  take  notice  of  any  statements  published  in  Eng- 
land Up  to  that  time,  but  to  reprcHcnt  the  crisis  as  it 
was  understood  in  the  Loyal  States  and  by  the  National 
Government;  that  I  should  do  tlfis  simply  to  explain 
and  justify  the  action  of  the  latter;  and  that,  having 
once  placed  the  loyal  view  of  the  subject  fairly  before 
the  KngliHh  people,  I  should  decline  any  controvei'sy. 
The  events  of  the  war,  I  added,  would  soon  draw  the 
public  attention  away  from  its  origin,  and  the  "Corn- 
hill,^'  before  the  close  of  the  struggle,  would  probably 
be  obliged  to  admit  articles  of  a  more  strongly  partisan 
character   than  that  which  I  proposed  to  write.     The 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY,  145 

publisher,  nevertheless,  was  firm  in  his  refusal,  not  less 
to  Thackeray's  disappointment  than  my  own.  IIo  de- 
cided upon  what  then  seemed  to  him  to  bo  good  busi- 
ness-reasons ;  and  the  same  consideration,  doubtless,  sub- 
sequently led  him  to  accept  statements  favorable  tc  the 
side  of  tlio  Rebellion. 

As  wo  were  walking  away,  Thackeray  said  to 
me : — 

"  I  am  anxious  that  these  things  should  bo  made 
public:  suppose  you  write  a  brief  article,  and  send  it  to 
the  < Times'?" 

"I  would  do  so,"  I  answered,  "if  there  were  any 
probability  that  it  would  bo  published." 

"I  will  try  to  arrange  that,"  said  he.     "I  know  Mr. 

,"  (one  of  the  editors,)  "and  will  call  upon  him  at 

once.  I  will  ask  for  the  publication  of  your  letter  as  a 
personal  favor  to  myself." 

Wo  parted  at  the  door  of  a  club-house,  to  meet 
again  the  same  afternoon,  when  Thackeray  hoped  to 
have  the  matter  settled  as  he  desired.    He  did  not,  how. 

ever,  succeed  in  finding  Mr. ,  but  sent  him  a  letter. 

I  j;hereupon  went  to  work  the  next  day,  and  prepared  a 
careful,  cold,  dispassionate  statement,  so  condensed  that 
it  would  have  made  less  than  half  a  column  of  the 
"Times."  I  sent  it  to  the  editor,  referring  him  to  Mr. 
Thackeray's  letter  in  my  behalf,  and  that  is  the  last  I 
ever  heard  of  it. 

All  of  Thackeray's  American  friends  will  remember 


146  £SSAys  AND   NOTES. 

the  feelings  of  pain  and  regret  with  which  they  read 
his  "Eoundabout  Paper'*  in  the  "Comhill  Magazine,'* 
in  (February,  I  think)  1862, — wherein  he  reproaches  our 
entire  people  as  being  willing  to  confiscate  the  stocks 
and  other  property  owned  in  this  country  by  English- 
men, out  of  spite  for  their  disappointn^.ent  in  relation  to 
the  Trent  affair,  and  directs  his  New  York  bankers  to 
sell  out  all  his  investments,  and  remit  the  proceeds  to 
London,  without  delay.  It  was  not  his  fierce  denuncia- 
tion of  such  national  dishonesty  that  we  deprecated,  but 
his  apparent  belief  in  its  possibility.  "We  felt  that  ho, 
of  all  Englishmen,  should  have  understood  us  better. 
We  regretted,  for  Thackeray's  sake,  that  he  had  per- 
mitted himself,  in  some  spleenful  moment,  to  commit 
an  injustice  which  would  sooner  or  later  be  apparent 
to  his  own  mind. 

Three  months  afterwards,  (in  May,  1862,)  I  waa 
again  in  London.  I  had  not  heard  from  Thackeray 
since  the  publication  of  the  "Roundabout"  letter  to  his 
bankers,  and  was  uncertain  how  far  his  evident  ill-tem- 
per on  that  occasion  had  subsided;  but  I  owed  him  too 
much  kindness,  I  honored  hira  too  profoundly,  not  to 
pardon  him,  unasked,  my  share  of  the  offence.  I  found 
him  installed  in  the  new  house  he  had  built  in  Palace 
Gardens,  Kensington.  He  received  mo  with  the  frank 
welcome  of  old,  and  when  we  were  alone,  in  the  pri- 
vacy of  his  library,  made  an  opportunity  (intentionally, 
I  am  sure)  of  approaching  the  subject  which,  he  knew. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY,  147 

I  could  not  liavo  forgotten.  I  asked  him  why  he  wrote 
the  article, 

<*I  was  unwell,"  he  answered, — "you  know  what  the 
moral  effects  of  my  attacks  are, — and  I  was  indignant 
that  such  a  shameful  proposition  should  bo  n.ade  in 
your  American  newspapers,  and  not  a  single  voice  be 
raised  to  rebuke  it." 

"But  you  certainly  knew,"  said  I,  "that  the  -— 
•— —  does  not  represent  American  opinion.  I  assure 
you,  that  no  honest,  respectable  man  in  the  United 
States  ever  entertained  the  idea  of  cheating  an  English 
stockholder." 

"I  should  hope  so,  too,"  he  answered;  "but  when 

I  saw  the  same    thing  in  the _ ^,  which,  you 

will  admit,  is  a  paper  of  character  and  influence,  I  lost 
all  confidence.  I  know  how  impulsive  and  excitable 
your  people  are,  and  I  really  feared  that  some  such 
measure  might  bo  madly  advocated  and  carried  into 
effect.  I  see,  now,  that  I  made  a  blunder,  and  I  am  al- 
ready punished  for  it.  I  was  getting  eight  per  cent, 
from  my  American  investments,  and  now  that  I  have 
the  capital  here  it  is  lying  idle.  I  shall  probably  not  be 
able  to  invest  it  at  a  better  rate  than  four  per  cent." 

I  said  to  him,  playfully,  that  he  must  not  expect 
me,  as  an  American,  to  feel  much  sympathy  with  this 
loss:  I,  in  common  with  his  other  friends  beyond  the 
Atlantic,  expected  from  him  a  juster  recognition  of  the 
national  character. 


I    I        J 

149  ESSAYS  AfiD  NOTES. 

"Well,**  said  he,  "let  tis  say  no  tnore  about  it.  1 
admit  that  1  have  made  a  mistake." 

Those  who  knew  the  physical  torments  to  which 
Thackeray  was  periodically  subject — spasms  which  not 
only  racked  his  strong  frame,  but  temporarily  darkened 
his  views  of  men  and  things — must  wonder  that,  with 
the  obligation  to  write  permanently  hanging  over  him, 
he  was  not  more  frequently  betrayed  into  impatient  or 
petulant  expressions.  In  his  clear  brain,  he  judged 
himself  no  less  severely,  and  watched  his  own  nature 
no  less  warily,  than  he  regarded  other  men.  II is  strong 
sense  of  justice  was  always  alert  and  active.  He  some- 
times tore  away  the  protecting  drapery  from  the  world's 
pet  heroes  and  heroines,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  de- 
sired no  one  to  set  him  beside  them.  He  never  be- 
trayed the  least  sensitiveness  in  regard  to  his  place  in 
literature.  The  comparisons  which  critics  sometimes  in- 
stituted between  himself  and  other  prominent  authors 
simply  amused  him.  In  1866,  he  told  me  he  had  writ- 
ten a  play  which  the  managers  had  ignominiously  re- 
jected. "I  thought  I  could  write  for  the  stage,"  said 
he;  "but  it  seems  I  can't.  I  havp  a  mind  to  have  the 
piece  privately  performed,  here  at  home.  I  *11  take  the 
big  footman's  part."  This  plan,  however,  was  given 
up,  and  the  material  of  the  play  was  afterwards  used 
I  believe,  in  "Lovel,  the  Widower." 

He  delighted  in  the  use  of  the  pencil,  and  often 
spoke  to  me  of   his  illustrations  being  a  pleasant  relief 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY,  149 

to  hand  and  brain,  after  the  fatigue  of  writing.  He 
had  a  very  imperfect  sense  of  color,  and  confessed 
that  his  forte  lay  in  caricature.  Some  of  his  sketches 
were  charmingly  drawn  upon  the  block,  but  he  was 
often  unfortunate  in  his  engraver.  The  original  manu- 
script of  "  The  Eoso  and  the  Hing,"  with  the  illustra- 
tions, is  admirable.  He  was  fond  of  making  groups  of* 
costumes  and  figures  of  the  last  century,  and  I  have 
heard  English  artists  speak  of  his  talent  in  this  genre; 
but  ho  never  professed  to  be  more  than  an  amateur,  or 
to  exercise  the  art  for  any  other  reason  than  the  pleas- 
ure it  gave  him. 

He  enjoyed  the  popularity  of  his  lectures,  because 
they  were  out  of  his  natural  line  of  work.  Although 
he  made  several  very  clever  after-dinner  speeches,  he 
always  assured  me  that  it  was  accidental, — thot  he  had 
no  talent  whatever  for  thinking  on  his  feet, 

"  Even  when  I  am  reading  my  lectures,"  he  said, 
**I  often  think  to  myself,  *What  a  humbug  you  are,' 
and  I  wonder  the  people  don't  find  it  out  I" 

When  in  New  York,  he  confessed  to  me  that  he 
should  like  immensely  to  find  some  town  where  the 
people  imagined  that  all  Englishmen  transposed  their 
As,  and  give  one  of  his  lectures  in  that  style.  He 
was  very  fond  of  relating  an  incident  which  occurred 
during  his.  visit  to  St.  Louis.  He  was  dining  one  day 
in  the  hotel,  when  he  overheard  one  Irish  waiter  say 
to  another:— 


150  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that,  is ! " 

"Ko,**wa8  the  answer. 

"That,'*  said  the  first;  <*ifl  the  celebrated  Thacker!*' 

<* What's  he  done?" 

«D--d  if  I  knowl" 

Of  Thackeray's  private  relations  I  would  speak  with 
a  cautious  reverence*    An  author's  heart  is  a  sanctuary 
into  which,   except  so  far  as  he  voluntarily  reveals   it, 
the   public  has  no   right    to   enter.    The  shadow  of  a 
domestic  affliction,  which  darkened  all  his  life,  seemed 
only  to  have  increased  his  paternal  care  and  tenderness. 
To    his    fond    solicitude    for  his  daughters  we   owe  a 
part  of  the  writings  wherewith    he    has  enriched    our 
literature.    While   in    America,    he   often   said   to   me 
that  his  chief  desire  was  to  secure  a  certain  sum  for 
them,  and  I  shall  never  forget   the  joyous  satisfaction 
with  which  he  afterwards  informed  me,  in  London,  that 
the   work  was   done.     "Now,"  ho   said,  "the  dear  girls 
are  provided  for.    The   great  anxiety  is  taken  from  my 
life,  and  I  can  breathe  freely  for  the  little  time  that  is 
left  me  to  be  with  them."     I  ktiew  that  he  had  denied 
himself  many  "luxuries'*  (as  he  called   them)  to  accom- 
plish this  object.     For  six  years,  after  he  had  redeemed 
the  losses   of  a    reckless  youthful   expenditure,  he  was 
allowed  to  live  and  to  employ  an  income,  princely  for 
an  author,  in  the  gratification  of  tastes  which  had  been 
so  long  repressed. 

He    thereupon    commenced  building  a    new    house, 


WILLIAAf  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY,  151 

after  his  own  designs.  It  was  of  red  brick,  in  tiie  style 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  but  the  internal  arrangement 
was  rather  American  than  English.  It  was  so  much  ad- 
mired that,  although  the  cost  much  exceeded  his  esti- 
mate, he  could  have  sold  it  for  an  advance'  of  a  thou- 
sand pounds.  To  me  the  most  interesting  feature  was 
the  library,  which  occupied  the  northern  end  of  the 
first  floor,  with  a  triple  window  opening  toward  the 
street,  and  another  upon  a  warm  little  garden-plot  shut 
in  by  high  walls. 

"Hero,"  he  said  to  me,  ivhen  I  saw  him  for  the 
last  time,  "  here  I  am  going  to  write  my  greatest  work, 
—a  History  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Anne,  There  are 
my  materials," — pointing  to  a  collection  of  volumes  in 
various  bindings  which  occupied  a  separate  place  on  the 
shelves, 

"When  shall  you  begin  it?"  I  asked, 
"  Probably  as  soon  I  am  done  with  *  Philip,' "  was 
his  answer ;  "  but  I  am  not  sure.  I  may  have  to  write 
another  novel  first.  But  the  History  will  mature  all 
the  better  for  the  delay,  I  want  to  absorb  the  auihoii- 
ties  gradually,  so  that,  when  I  come  to  write,  I  shall 
be  filled  with  the  subject,  and  can  sit  down  to  a  con- 
tinuous narrative,  without  jumping  up  every  moment 
to  consult  somebody.  The  History  has  been  a  pet  idea 
of  mine  for  years  past,  I  am  slowly  working  up  to 
the  level  of  it,  and  know  that  when  I  once  begin  I 
shall  do  it  well." 


I  ( 

I        1  I  _        . 

162  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

What  this  history  might  havo  been  we  can  only  re- 
gretfully conjecture:  it  has  perished  with  the  uncom- 
pleted novel,  and  all  the  other  dreams  of  that  principle 
of  the  creative  intellect  which  the  world  calls  Ambi- 
tion, but  which  the  artist  recognizes  as  Conscience. 

That  hour  of  the  sunny  May-day  returns  to  memory 
as  I  write.  The  quiet  of  the  library,  a  little  with- 
drawn from  the  ceaseless  roar  of  London;  the  soft  grass 
of  the  bit  of  garden,  moist  from  a  recent  shower,  seen 
through  the  open  window;  the  smoke-strained  sunshine, 
stealing  gently  along  the  wall ;  and  before  mo  the 
square,  maRsivo  head,  the  prematurely  gray  hair,  the 
large,  clear,  sad  eyes,  the  frank,  winning  mouth,  with 
its  smile  of  boyish  sweetness,  of  the  nian  whom  I  honor 
as  a  master,  while  he  gave  me  the  right  to  love  him  as 
a  friend.  I  was  to  leave  the  next  day  for  a  tempomry 
home  on  the  Continent,  and  he  was  planning  how  ho 
could  visit  me  with  his  daughters.  The  proper  season, 
the  time,  and  the  expense  were  carefully  calculated:  he 
described  the  visit  in  advance,  with  a  gay,  excursive 
fancy;  and  his  last  words,  as  ho  gave  me  the  warm, 
strong  hand  I  was  never  again  to  press,  wei*e,  "J.t(/ 
Wiedersehen  I  '* 

What  little  I  have  Ventured  to  relate  gives  but  a 
fragmentary  image  of  the  man  whom  I  knew.  I  can- 
not describe  him  as  the  faithful  son,  the  tender  father, 
the  true  friend,  the  man  of  large  humanity  and  lofty 
honesty  that   ho   really   was,   without  stepping  too  far 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY.  153 

within  the  Bacred  circle  of  his  domcBtic  life.  To  mo 
there  w«a8  no  inconsistency  in  his  nature.  Where  the 
careless  reader  may  see  only  the  cynic  and  the  relentless 
satirist,  I  recognize  liis  unquenchable  scorn  of  human 
meanness  and  duplicity, — the  impatient  wratli  of  a  soul 
too  frequently  disappointed  in  its  search  for  good.  I 
have  heard  him  lash  the  faults  of  others  with  an  indig- 
nant sorrow  wliich  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes.  For 
this  reason  ho  could  not  bear  that  ignorant  homage 
should  be  given  to  men  really  unwortliy  of  it.  lie 
said  to  me,  once,  speaking  of  a  critic  who  blamed  the 
scarcity  of  noblo  and  lovable  character  in  his  novels: — 
"  Other  men  can  do  that.  I  know  what  I  can  do  best ; 
and  if  I  do  good,  it  must  be  in  my  own  way." 

The  fate  wliich  took  him  from  us  was  one  which 
he  had  anticipated.  lie  often  said  that  his  time  was 
short,  that  he  could  not  certainly  reckon  on  many 
more  years  of  life,  and  that  his  end  would  probably  bo 
sudden.  He  once  spoke  of  Irving's  death  as  fortunate 
in  its  character.  The  subject  was  evidently  familiar  to 
his  thoughts,  and  his  voice  had  always  a  tone  of  sol- 
emn resignation  which  told  that  he  had  conquered  its 
bitterness.  lie  was  ready  at  any  moment  to  answer  the 
call:  and  when,  at  last,  it  was  given  and  answered,— » 
when  the  dawn  of  the  first  Christmas  holiday  lighted 
his  pale,  moveless  features,  and  the  large  heart  throb- 
bed no  more  forever  in  its  grand  scorn  and  still  gran- 
der tenderness, — \i\&  released    spirit  could  have  chosen 


154  £shvs  AND  NOTES. 

no  fitter  worda  of  farewell  than  the  gentle  benediction 
his  own  lips  have  breathed: 

"I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health  and  love  and  mirths 

As  fits  the  solemn  Chrlstmas-tidei 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  burth. 

Be  this  good  friends,   our  carol  Btill|-* 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earthy 

To  men  of  gentle  will!** 

Maroh,   1864. 


AUTIMN  DAYS  IN  WEIMAE. 


WEIMAR  is  one  of  those   places  whicli  the  ordi- 
nary tourist  never  really  sees.     Probably  nine- 
tenths  of  our  rapid  countrymen,  who  travel  the  direct 
railway  line  from  Frankfort  to  Berlin,  reach  the  ond  of 
their  journey  with  a  confused  impression  of  broad  belts 
of  farm-land,  ranges  of  wooded  mountains,  half  a  dozen 
gray  towers,  stately  stone  stations  with  the  inevitable 
telegraphic    bell   and   conductor's   whistle,    and    flying 
glimpses  of   cities    which  they    afterwards    vainly    en- 
deavor  to    disentangle    and    label    with    their    separate 
names,     Eisenach,   Gotha,  Erfurt,  Weimar  and  Naum- 
burgh  lie  strung  along  the  line,  in  the  northern  skirt  of 
that  old    Ilercynian    Forest  which    once    stretched  un- 
broken from  the  Rhine  to  the  Elbe,  and  each  is  the  en-, 
trance  to  its  own  near  region  of  landscape  and  legend., 
But  their  best  charms  are  not  manifest  at  a  distance,  ort 
caught  in  hurrying  past.    The  Ettersberg  is  the  tamest 
possible  hill)  and  Weimar  a  dull  little  town  in  a  hol- 
low among  bare,  windy  uplands,  to  the  traveler  with  a 
through  ticket 


156  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

JEven  one  who  spares  a  day  from  his  itinerary— who 
reverently  inspects  Schiller's  room,  looks  at  the  outside 
of  Goethe's  house,  walks  the  length  of  the  park,  and 
gives  an  hour  each  to  the  library,  castle  and  museum- 
will  bo  apt  to  wonder  what  attraction  drew  so  many  of 
Germany's  greatest  minds  to  a  place  so  sober,  quiet 
and  contracted  in  all  its  ways  and  circumstances.  If 
ho  bo  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  illustrious  period, 
the  remembrance  of  the  primitive  diversions  of  Duchess 
Anna  Amalia  and  young  Karl  August  will  suggest  a 
livelier  life  than  ho  now  finds  in  the  streets  of  Wei- 
mar, He  will  scent,  perforce,  an  atmosphere  of  pro- 
saic conventionalism,  where  the  ancient  magic  is  as 
thorouglily  gone  as  the  scent  of  roses  when  summer  is 
over.  AVith  a  dreary  sinking  of  the  imagination,  he 
will  recall  the  decadence  that  succeeds  a  glorious  age, 
and  something  of  the  sadness  of  a  cemetery  will  cling 
to  his  recollections  of  the  placoi 

But  Weimar,  among  other  German  cities,  is  like  a 
Btill-tongued,  inconspicuous,  yet  very  genuine  person  in 
a  gay  and  talkative  company,— not  to  be  known  too 
easily,  itnd  loved  forever  when  once  truly  known. 
Four  different  times,  with  intervals  of  years  between, 
I  went  tliither  for  a  day,  took  the  same  walks,  saw  the 
same  sights,  and  left  with  the  same  vague  sense  of  dis- 
appointment and  regret.  I  can  thus  estimate  the  char- 
acter of  the  superficial  impression  which  many  others, 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    IVEIMAR.  157 

doubtless,  take  liome  with  them.  During  the  summer 
and  autumn  months,  when  the  court  is  absent,  there  are 
hours  wlien  scarcely  even  a  peasant  is  encountered  in 
the  shady  walks  along  the  Ilm;  when  the  market- 
women  knit,  in  the  lack  of  customers,  on  the  square 
before  the  llathhaus,  and  when  the  memorial  statues 
seem  to  sleep  in  bronze,  since  no  one  spares  a  part  of 
his  own  life  to  awaken  them. 

Moreover,  there  is   nearly  as  much  local  pride  and 
jealousy  among  the  capitals  of  the  small  mid-Gennan 
principalities,    (is    among    our    nascent    Western    cities. 
The  intercourse  of  their  citizens  is  singularly  limited; 
and,  inasmuch  as  each  has  its  special  traditions  of  ven- 
erable age,  its    peculiarities   of   social  life    and  public 
habits,    a  narrow  criticism  is  often  applied  where  the 
diversity    might    be    heartily    enjoyed.      All    Germany 
still   remembers    the   old    caricatures  in   the  Fliegende 
Blatter  of  Munich,  where  Beiselo  sits  on  the  aristocratic 
side  of  the  theatre  at  Weimar,  while  Eisele  is  placed 
opposite,  among  the  burghers;  and  both  are  afterwards 
imprisoned  for  addressing  a  young  lady  as  "Friiulein" 
instead    of    "Mademoiselle."      The    former   illustration 
was  a  just  satire  at  the  time;  but  the  rule  it  ridicules 
was  abolished  more  than  twenty  years  ago.     The  lat- 
ter, of  course,  was  a  grotesque  exaggeration,  illustrating 
the  fact  that  the  freest  and  most  enlightened  German 
capital  for  more  than  fifty  years  had  somehow  come  to 
be  regarded  as  the  home  of  all  obsolete  social  etiquette. 


158  £SSsiyS  AND  NOTES, 

I  imagine  that  this  was  mainly  a  remnant  of  the  jeal- 
ousy engendered  by  Weimar's  glory,  and  that  it  had 
been  kept  alive  by  rival  court-circles  and  the  classes 
which  they  influence,  rather  than  by  the  people  at 
large.  The  latter  are  not  always  so  narrow  in  their 
likings  as  those  above  them. 

I   camd  back  to  TVeiriiar  for    a  longer  stay,  on  a 
cold,  dull    October   morning.      My  room  in  the  hotel 
looked  across  a  sort  of  boulevard,  marking  the  site  of 
a  moat  outside  the  ancient  wall  of  the  town,  over  the 
front   of  the  building  belonging  to  the  Erholung  (Rec- 
reation)— the  one  club  of  the  place— to  the  spire  of  the 
Stadtkirche  where  Herder  preached.     For  a  background 
I  had  the  wooded  hill  and    massive  military  barracks 
beyond  the  Ilm.    The  lovely  park,  the  creation  of  Karl 
August  and  Goethe,  lay  unseen  in  the  hollow  between; 
south  and  west  of  me,  I  knew,  there  were  only  high, 
bare    fields;    and    I    wondered    whether    the     famous 
authors  who  once  dwelt  within  my  range  of  vision  ever 
seemed  to  themselves  as  lonely  and  forsaken  as  their 
monuments— or  myself— on  such  a  day.    I  took  a  spir- 
itless M'alk  through  the  streets,  and  came  back  without 
delivering    one    of    my    three     notes    of    introduction. 
There  was  the  Schiller  house,  with  its  merchandise  of 
plaster-casts  and  photographs  in  the  window  beside  the 
door;    there    was  the  Goethe  house,  inhabited  at    last 
(for    curtains    were  visible    behind  the    window-panes), 
but  still  looking  gloomy  and  forlorn;  the  library,  with 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  159 

no  sign  of  life  around  it;  and  at  a  restaurant  near  tlio 
theatre,  kept  by  Wertlier^  one  individual  was  drinking 
his  solitary  beer! 

The  waiter  presently  summoned  mo  to  tho  iMe 
ePhdte^  placing  me  between  half  a  dozen  transient  guests 
and  a  company  of  as  many  gentlemen  whoso  wine  bot^ 
ties  and  napkin-rings  marked  them  as  habitues.  The 
latter  immediately  excited  my  interest  and  attracted 
me  towards  them.  The  chairman's  place  was  occupied 
by  a  bale,  ruddy  gentleman,  who  proved  to  bo  Dr, 
K-; — ,  Director  of  the  Museum,  to  whom  I  was  com- 
mended by  a  mutual  friend.  An  English  scholar  and 
an  English  artist  sat  near  him,  and  he  used  their  lan- 
guage with  as  much  fluency  as  his  own.  There  was 
also  a  young  Swiss  artist,  handsome  as  the  Antinous; 
Baron  von  Salis,  Adjutant  of  tho  Hereditary  Grand 
Duke,  and  beside  him,  as  if  still  illustrating  tho  friend- 
ship between  the  poet  Salis  and  Schiller,  sat  tho  grand- 
son of  the  latter,  Baron  von  Gleichen-Russwurm. 

There  could  have  been  no  more  refined  and  genial 
company;  the  most  of  its  members  added  the  lustre  of 
tradition  to  their  own  accomplishments,  and  the  tem- 
porary additions  to  it,  from  time  to  time,  were  drawn 
from  the  same  circle.  In  the  evening,  after  the  early 
closing  of  the  theatre,  the  ^^  Iniendant^'*  Baron  von 
Loen,  a  relative  of  Goethe  on  the  Textor  side,  came 
frequently;  Baron  von  Stein  sometimes  drove  over  from 
bis  estate  of  Kochberg,  famous  in  the  annals  of    hi» 


160  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

grandmother,  Frau  von  Stein;  the  families  of  Herder, 
Wieland  and  Kncbel  were  included  in  the  common 
acquaintance,  and  many  an  old  story,  familiar  elsewhere 
to  the  scholar  only,  here  belonged,  to  the  presumed 
knowledge  of  all.  The  kindly  courtesy  with  which 
room  was  made  for  me  in  this  little  society  was  no 
false  promise  of  tlie  enjoyment  which  I  drew  from  it. 
Many  a  light  which  I  had  fancied  extinguished,  soon 
began  to  scud  its  rays  out  of  Weimar's  past;  many  an 
old  interest  proclaimed  its  stubborn  life;  until,  in  this 
new  atmospliere,  the  heroic  forms  ceased  to  be  mere 
shadows,  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  and  finally  recovere^d 
OS  much  reality  of  being  as  knowledge,  •  memory  and 
fancy  can  bestow  upon  the  dead. 

I  arose  from  my  first  dimier  with  only  an  instinct 
of  the  coming  good  fortune ;  for  my  acquaintance  with 
the  company  began,  quite  frankly  and  unconventionally, 
in  the  evening.  But  the  desire  to  know  somebody  was 
aroused  at  last.  I  selected  a  letter  to  the  Prlvy-Coun- 
oilor,  Scholl)  whoso  name  will  bo  familiar  to  all  Goethe 
students  as  that  of  a  rarely  accomplished  editor  and 
critic.  His  residence  is  in  the  Schillcr-strasso,  next  to 
that  of  Schillers  ghost,  but  I  found  him  in  his  official 
quarters  In  the  library.  There  was  something  in  his 
high  brew,  brown  bright  eyes  and  masculine  nose 
which  suggested  a  milder  and  livelier  Goethe;  nor  was 
I  disappointed*  The  days  that  followed  revealed  to 
me  much  of  the  same   mixture  of   wisdom  and  humor, 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  161 

of  receptive,  combative  and  sympathetic  intellect,  mel- 
lowed by  warm  social  qualities,  which  characterize  all 
the  local  traditions  of  the  great  master's  intercoureo 
with  others. 

Ilerr  SchuU  introduced  mo  to  the  librarian,  Dr. 
Koliler,  a  man  in  whom  scholarly  fame  is  exceptionally 
linked  with  great  modesty.  The  two  were  about  to 
take  their  daily  walk  through  the  park  to  the  village  of 
Ober-Weimar,  nearly  two  miles  distant.  I  asked  per- 
mission to  be  the  third.  The  mist  was  already  less 
dank,  the  first  touches  of  autumn  on  the  park  trees  less 
melancholy;  a  few  single  saunterers  or  pairs  were 
abroad  in  tho  paths,  and  some  market  women,  with 
empty  baskets  on  their  shoulders,  descended  tho  stops, 
passed  the  artificial  grottoes  at  tho  base  of  the  hill,  and 
took  their  way  across  the  first  meadow  towards  Goethe's 
garden-house.  Below  us,  under  tho  wooded  bluff,  lay 
the  lonely  pathway  of  shade  beside  the  Ilm,  which  was 
Schiller's  favorite  walk:  the  crest,  which  we  followed, 
with  its  freer  outlook  between  the  gaps  in  the  foliage, 
its  larger  spaces  of  light  and  air,  was  preferred  by 
Goethe. 

The  whole  park,  in  fact,  was  created  by  Goethe 
and  Karl  August.  It  was  a  successful  effort  to  base 
landscape-gardening  upon  nature,  at  a  time  when  all 
Germany  was  painfully  imitating  the  formalism  of  Yer- 
sailles.  Count  Eumford's  similar  achievement  at  Mu- 
nich was  some  years  later.     The  grottoes  and  an  arti- 


I 

162  SSSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

ficial  min  are  the  only  incongrnons  features  in  the 
plan,  and  they  are  now  so  hidden  or  modified  by  the 
action  of  vegetable  growth  that  they  scarcely  interfere 
with  the  first  impression  of  an  exquisite  natural  valley, 
gradually  melting  into  pasture-meadows  and  cultivated 
fields.  There  is  nothing  forced  or  studied  in  the  group- 
ing of  the  trees  or  the  disposition  of  the  shrubbery ;  the 
turf  harbors  all  the  tribes  of  wild-flowers  in  their  turn, 
and  the  paths  add  the  one  touch  of  luxury,  of  subdued 
and  civilized  nature,  which  we  should  bo  willing  to 
find  in  the  most  waste  and  desolate  places*  A  soft, 
sweet  air  of  i*epose  hangs  over  the  valley;  people  lin- 
ger rather  than  hurry  when  they  enter  it;  the  town  is 
not  noisy  enough  to  disturb  the  solitude;  even  the 
highway  to  Belvedere,  which  skirts  one  side  of  the 
park,  is  half  concealed  by  its  avenue  of  broad-armed 
trees,  and  what  little  human  labor  is  visible  upon  the 
remoter  hills  becomes  a  picture,  and  no  more. 

Ober-Weimar,  also,  claims  its  share  of  the  literary 
traditions.  Schiller  once  took  refuge  there,  to  get  on 
more  rapidly  with  his  work  by  escaping  company,  but 
was  sorely  disturbed  by  the  festal  noises  of  a  rural  wed- 
ding. When  we  had  taken  seats  in  the  dingy  guest- 
room of  a  tavern,  with  cups  of  inspiring  coffee  before 
us,  my  new  friend  pointed  to  the  stone  bridge  over  the 
Hm,  and  said:  "The  Duchess  Anna  Amalia  took  that 
for  one  of  her  artistic  studies.'*  Some  days  afterwards, 
I  turned  over  a  portfolio  of  her  sketches,  in  the  mu* 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  163 

eeum,  and  could  easily  imagine  what  Bort  of  a  study 
she  made  of  it.  The  mannered  drawing  of  that  day 
finds  its  climax  in  Oeser,  who  gave  Goethe  his  first  les- 
sons. Its  crispy,  woolly  foliage,  wooden  rocks  and 
blurred  foregrounds,  dotted  here  and  there  with  bits  of 
rigid  detail,  are  verily  astonishing  to  behold.  Even 
Meyer,  who  was  so  often  sound  in  theory,  never  freed 
himself,  in  practice,  from  the  cramped  artificial  re- 
straints of  the  school. 

Goethe's  own  drawings  are  a  curious  illustration  of 
a  correct  instinct  struggling  with  a  false  system,  which 
he  had  not   technical  skill  enough  to   break   through. 
Hie  most  rapid  sketches  are  always  his  best.    The  out- 
lines are  free  and  bold;  light  and  shade,  in  masses,  are 
often  well  disposed;    and  if   he   had  possessed  a  fine 
sense  of  color  he  might  have  developed,  under  other  in- 
fluences, into  a  tolerable  artist.    But  when  he  comes  to 
detail,  ho  never  releases  himself  from  Oeser's  method, 
and  all  the  freedom  of  his  first  outlines  disappears  in 
the  process.     I  have  seen  his  original  drawing  of  the 
cloven  tower  of  Heidelberg  Castle,  a  crude  but  by  no 
means  a  bad  performance;    then    Oeser's    copy   of   it, 
changed,  stiffened,  hardly  to  be  recognized  as  the  same 
thing;   and,  finally,  Goethe's  laborious  copy  of  Oeser, 
emphasizing  all  the  faults  of  the  latter.    The  few  draw- 
ings he   made  in  Kome— especially  a  very  clean   and 
careful  sketch  of  the  Capitol,  in  India  ink — give  the 
best  evidence  of  Goethe's  amateur  talent. 


164  £SSyAS  AkD  NOTES. 

"We  took  the  meadow-path  back  to  the  town,  pass- 
ing .the  clafifiic  garden-house,  where  the  poet  plucked 
his  earliest  violets  and  raised  his  asparagus  for  Frau 
von  Stein;  where  he  was  sometimes  obliged  to  borrow 
a  plate  of  corned  beef,  when  the  duke  and  duchess 
came  unexpectedly  to  tea;  where  he  taught  Christiane 
Vulpius  something  of  the  metamorphosis  of  plants; 
and  where,  later,  Thackeray  took  coffee  under  the  trees 
planted  in  those  early  daysi  I  looked  over  the  gate, 
and  could  well  believe  that  the  same  larkspurs  and  pot- 
marigolds  had  been  blossoming  under  the  windows  for 
a  century  past.  But  there  wei-e  dead  leaves  on  all  the 
paths,  and  the  steep  hill-side  immediately  in  the  rear 
looked  moldy  with  shade  and  moisture.  It  is  an  invit- 
ing spot,  with  its  sheltered,  sunny  site;  although  hardly 
ten  minutes'  walk  from  the  town,  its  front  looks  only 
upon  meadows,  trees  and  the  dark,  gliding,  silent  Ilm. 

The  rock-work  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream  is 
rather  clumsily  done.  Goethe  was  so  enthusiastic  a 
geologist  that  he  could  hardly  have  had  his  o^vn  way 
in  its  arrangement;  but  he  partly  relieved  the  stiff 
masses  by  stone  stairways,  landings  and  tablets  with  in- 
Bcriptions.  Beside  one  of  the  paths  of  shade  which  lead 
to  the  top  of  the  bluff  he  placed  a  rude  piece  of  sculp- 
ture, representing  a  serpent  coiled  around  an  altar  and 
devouring  an  offering  cake  laid  upon  it.  The  common 
people,  unable  to  understand  the  symbol,  soon  invented 
a  legend  of  their  own  to  interpret  it;  the  present  gen- 


AUTUMN   DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  165 

eration  of  peasants  firmly  believes  that  a  huge  ser- 
pent infested  the  banks  of  the  Ilm,  in  ancient  times, 
and  was  poisoned  by  some  unknown  knight  or  saint. 
There  was  also  a  little  bark  hut,  too  new  to  bo  quite 
the  same,  in  all  its  parts,  which  Karl  August  erected. 
Its  very  plainness  seems  to  bo  suggestive  of  mystery  to 
certain  minds,  and  the  stranger  may  carry  away  some 
singular  statements  and  conjectures,  unless  ho  knows 
how  to  weigh  his  authority. 

One  of  my  first  visits  was  to  Preller,  tho  Iloraerio 
painter,  whoso  frescoes  illustrating  the  Odyssey  are 
Buch  a  superb  adornment  of  the  long  corridor  in  tho 
museum.  Nearly  as  old  as  the  century,  having  been 
developed  under  Goethe's  encouragement  and  Karl 
August's  generous  patronage,  he  was  to  me,  as  Tegnor 
says  of  Thorsten  Yikingsson,  <*a  living  legend."  I 
found  him  in  his  studio,  with  three  young  ladies  work- 
ing so  zealously  under  his  direction  that  only  one  of 
them  looked  up, — ^but  she  was  just  finishing  an  admira- 
ble crayon  drawing  of  the  Famese  Torso.  Preller  was 
painting  a  scene  near  Olevano,  in  the  Sabine  Moun- 
tains, with  an  Arcadian  group  in  tho  foreground,  I 
accepted  an  invitation  to  call  at  his  house,  and  with- 
drew before  he  had  time  to  lay  down  his  brush. 

.  The  next  evening  I  found  that  he  had  only  changed 
his  locality,  not  his  surroundings.    The  ladies— one  of 
them  a  great  grand-daughter  of  Herder— had  a  portfolio    . 
of  original  drawings  by  famous  German  artists  before 


1C6  SSSAYS  ASD  NOTES. 

tlieni)  and. were  enjoying  these  and  PrelWs  InstmctiTe 
comments  at  the  same  time.  They  made  room  for  me 
at  the  table,  opposite  the  painter's  strong  head  and  full, 
gray  beard;  on  one  side  there  was  a  cast  of  Trippel's 
bust  of  Goethe,  the  Apollo  head,  modeled  in  Eome  in 
1787.  The  original  is  in  the  Weimar  library*  It  is 
one  of  those  heads  whose  dignity  and  beauty  are  all 
the  more  striking  because  it  just  falls  short  of  the 
Vxnct  Greek  synimctry.  Though  suggesting  a  demi- 
god, it  is  still  a  poHHiblo  mati.  Take  the  finest  known 
heads, — Antoninus  Pius,  the  young  Augustus,  Napoleon, 
Byron, — and  tliis  of  Goethe  at  thirty-eight  will  seem  the 
noblest  and  completest. 

No  cast  had  been  made  from  Trippel's  bust  un- 
til several  years  ago,  when  the  sculptor  Arnold  was 
ulluwod  to  make  a  certain  number  of  copies.  I  was 
fortunate  enough  to  obtain  one,  and  I  now  said  to 
Preller:  "I  see  the  same  head  of  Goethe  here,  and  in 
the  same  position,  as  in  my  own  room  at  home;  only, 
opposite,  I  have  placed  the  Venus  of  Milo.  He,  as 
man,  should  stand  beside  her,  as  woman.'* 

He  got  up  from  the  sofa,  without  saying  a  word, 
came  to  where  I  was  sitting,  and  seized  me  by  the  arm. 
Following  the  hint  of  his  action,  I  rose ;  he  turned  me 
a  little  to  one  side,  and  pointed  silently  at  a  bust  of 
the  Venus  of  lililo,  which  1  had  not  noticed  on  enter- 
ing the  room.  "There  she  is!"  he  exclaimed,  at  last; 
"  I  see  her  every  day  of  my  life,  but  I  never  pass  her 


AUTUMN  DAYS  W    WEIMAR,  167 

without  saying  to  myself:  *My  God,  how  beautiful  she 
is!'" 

This  lucky  coincidence  of  taste  was  more  efficient 
than  hours  of  talk  in  opening  the  old  paintei'^s  heart, 
I  spent  many  other  evenings  in  his  genial  family  circle, 
until  he  grew  accustomed  to  unlock  the  store-house  of 
his  memory  and  bring  forth  many  an  illustrative  anec- 
dote of  the  man  and  men  wliom  I  wished  to  know. 
The  clear  intellectual  perception,  which  always  belongs 
to  an  artist  whose  genius  lies  in  the  harmonies  of  form 
no  less  than  those  of  color,  gave  a  special  point  and 
value  to  his  narrations.  No  feature  in  them  wus  of 
trivial  import;  ho  saw  the  personages  again  as  ho  do- 
scribed  them ;  he  heard  their  voices,  and  his  own,  as  he 
repeated  their  words,  became  an  unconscious  imitation. 
If  all  biographical  studies  could  be  made  in  this  way, 
how  delightful  would  be  the  author's  task  I 

Preller  set  before  me  a  much  more  distinct  picture 
of  Goethe's  son,  August,  than  I  had  been  able  to  obtain 
from  any  published  sources.  He  seems  to  have  inher- 
ited his  mother's  cheerful  and  amiable  temperament, 
together  with  its  sad  physical  failing,  and  much  of  his 
father's  personal  beauty,  with  hardly  a  tithe  of  his  men- 
tal capacity.  He  was  tall  and  finely-formed;  a  badly- 
painted  head,  still  in  existence,  has  the  ruddy  color, 
full  lips,  and  large,  soft  eyes  of  a  very  sensuous  na- 
ture; but  Preller  asserts  that  ho  was  also  intelligent, 
sympathetic,  capable,  and  every  way  attractive  when  in 


168  £isAyS  AND  NOTES. 

his  right  mind.  The  former  was  in  Home  when  he  ar- 
rived there^  and  related  to  me  the  circnmstances  attend- 
ing his  death*  Inasmlioh  as  a  brief  outline  of  the  story 
has  recently  been  published,*  I  feel  at  liberty  to  repeat 
it,  in  the  artist's  own  words: — 

"Shortly  after  young  Goethe  reached  Rome,  Kest- 
ner"  (the  Prussian  Secretary  of  Legation,  and  son  of 
tlie  Charlotte  whom  Goethe  made  famous  in  "Wcrther) 
"proposed  a  trip  to  Albano  and  Nemi,  and  invited  me 
to  join  in  it.  During  our  donkey-ride  to  the  lake,  after 
leaving  Albano,  Goetlie  complained  of  being  very  ill. 
He  could  scarcely  keep  his  seat  in  the  saddle,  but,  be- 
tween us.  We  got  him  as  far  as  Frascati,  where  we 
waited  three  hours  to  let  him  rest,  before  returning  in 
the  carriage  to  Rome.  He  was  in  a  raging  fever  when 
wo  arrived;  I  put  him  to  bed,  watched  with  liim  all 
night,  and  left  him  a  little  better  in  the  morning.  The 
next  night  I  asked  Rudolf  Meyer,  of  Dresden,  to  shait) 
the  watch  with  mo.  I  sat  up  until  midnight,  then 
went  into  the  next  room  and  stretched  myself  out  on 
some  chairs.  It  seemed  but  a  moment  before  Meyer 
came  into  the  room  and  said  to  me:  *  Goethe  is  evi- 
dently very  ill/  I  rose  instantly  and  went  to  him;  but 
I  had  hardly  entered  the  door  when  Goethe  made  one 
leap  from  the  bed,  rushed  towards  me,  threw  his  arms 
around  my  neck,  and  strained  me  to  his  breast  with 

*  By  Dr.  Eit&er,  in  a  note  attached  to  bis  translation  of  a  part  of 
Uenry  Crabb  Robinson's  journals. 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  169 

STich  violenco  tliat  I  tliought  I  Bliould  havo  died  on 
the  Bpot.  As  Boon  as  I  was  able,  I  loosened  his  anna 
and  pushed  him  softly  backwards  towards  the  bed.  Ho 
Bank  down  passively,  and  his  head  dropped  upon  the  pil- 
low, I  waited;  ho  did  not  move  a  muscle.  Then  I 
saw  that  he  did  not  breathe.  Leaving  Meyer,  I  ran  to 
tho  house  of  tho  physician,  who  came  at  once,  but 
found  that  death  had  instantly  followed  the  paroxysm, 
Kestncr  was  thunderstruck  when  ho  heard  tho  news, 

"Tho  disbcction  showed  that  liis  brain  was  healthy, 
—only  a  littlo  spot  betrayed  small-pox,  which  had  not 
como  out.  This  was  tho  causo  of  his  death,  I  at* 
tended  his  funeral  and  helped  carry  tho  corpse,  but  felt 
all  the  whilo  as  if  in  a  strango  dream,  hardly  conscious 
of  what  I  saw  and  heard.  Somewhero  on  tho  way 
homo  my  senses  entirely  left  me,  and  for  many  days 
there  was  a  blank  in  my  life.  When  I  came  to  myself, 
I  was  almost  lifeless,  and  covered  with  pustules;  it  was 
many  months  before  I  recovered  my  usual  Btrength." 

The  day  afterwards,  it  happened,  my  friend  SchoU 
related  to  me  how  Otfried  Muller  died  in  his  arms,  at 
Athens.  Singularly  enough  a  Greek  gentleman  joined 
us  in  our  walk  to  Ober-Weimar, — ^for  this  soon  became 
also  my  "custom  of  an  afternoon," — and  we  talked  of 
the  Hill  of  Colonos  until  bunches  of  asphodel  seemed 
to  dot  the  meadows  of  the  Bm.  Another  day,  while  I 
was  waiting  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  library  and  idly 
poring  over  a  map,  a  stranger  who  had  entered   sud- 


170  Ji^SA  rs  AND  NOTES. 

denly  pointed  to  the  Himalajafl  of  Nepatd,  and  Bald: 
<*  There  is  where  I  am  at  home.''  But  it  is  not  the 
ostentatioufl  tourifita  who  thua  quietly  converge  to  Wei- 
mar from  all  quarters  of  the  world. 

The  School  of  Art,  catabliahed  by  the  present  grand* 
duke,  was   convulsed  by  a  semi-revolution  during  the 
whole  of  my  stay.     The  prime  cause  thereof  appeared 
to  be  a  conflict  of  authority  between  the  director,  Count 
Kalkreuth,  himself  an  excellent  landscape  artist,  and  the 
Belgian  painter,  Verlat,  who  enjoyed  the  favor  of  the 
court.     There  was  one  time  during  the  crisis  when  the 
students  sharply  took  sides,  and  an  emigration,  almost 
en  masae^  wai*  threatened.     I  was   able  to  follow  the 
movement,  from  day  to  day,  through   the  confidential 
communications  of  some  of  the  young  artists  concerned 
in  it,  but  the  story  is  scarcely  important  enough  to  be 
retold.    Behind  it,  in  the  distance, — perhaps  not  at  all 
evident  to  the  most  of  the  actors, — loomed  the  conflict 
of  artistic  theories,  of  the  sensuous  and  the  imaginative 
elements,  of  technical  skill  and  the  expression  of  ideas. 
The  same  struggle  is  going  on  all  over  the  world.    It 
is  France,  in  league  with   Chinese  silks  and  Japanese 
screens,  against  the  extreme  which  is  best  illustrated  by 
Ivaulbach's  attempt  to  represent  the  Eeformation  on  a 
single  cartoon.     The  mid-lying  truth,  as  is  always  the 
case,  is  felt   rather  than  consciously   perceived   by  the 
honest,  single-minded  artiste  who  work,  and  leave  the 
battle  to  others* 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMARs  171 

In  tho  Btudio  of  Baron  von  Gloicben-R\iB8wurm, 
however,  I  found  a  refuge  from  the  passing  storm. 
He  kept  for  himself  the  serene  atmosphere  of  art, 
while  the  trouble  lasted;  and  his  pictures,  wherein  a 
strong  realistic  tnith  was  always  steeped  in  the  purest 
poetic  sentiment,  entirely  satisfied  boih  forms  of  the 
artistic  sense.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  is  the  only 
child  of  Schiller's  daughter,  Emilie,  who  most  resem- 
bled the  poet.  In  him  the  personal  resemblance  is 
weakened,  but  the  genius  is  inherited  and  embodied  in 
a  new  activity.  His  choice  and  treatment  of  subjects 
constantly  reminded  me  of  McEntee,  whom,  neverthe- 
less, ho  but  slightly  suggests  in  technical  quality.  Like 
McEntee,  he  feels  the  infinite  sweetness  and  sadness  of 
late  autumn;  of  dim  skies  and  lowering  masses  of 
clouds;  of  dead  leaves,  lonely  woodland  brooks,  brown 
marshes  and  gray  hillsides.  Moreover,  each  has  the 
same  intense  pei*6onal  faith  in  his  art,  the  same  devo- 
tion to  it  for  its  own  sake,  and  the  same  disregard  of 
the  transient  popular  tastes  to  which  sonw)  artists  sub- 
mit, and  foolishly  imagine  that  they  have  found  fame. 
If  the  remembrance  of  my  friend  at  home  so  fre- 
quently was  present  while  I  sat  watching  Schiller's 
grandson  paint  in  Weimar,  and  beguiled  me  into  a 
freedom  hardly  justified  by  so  brief  an  acquaintance,  xt 
was  delightful  to  find  that  the  response  came  as  frankly 
and  heartily  as  if  he  had  indeed  been  the  older 
friend. 


173  £SSA  YS  AND   UOTMS, 

There  are  fewer   traditions   of  Schiller  in  Weimar  ' 
than  of  Goethe,  for  Schiller's  ill  health  during  the  five 
years  of  his  residence  there  obliged  him  to  limit  the      a 
circle  of  his  familiar  associates.    Like  Goethe,  his  ordi- 
nary manner  towards  strangers  was  cold,  reserved  and 
seemingly  proud — because  a  finer  nature    instinctively 
guards  itself  against  a  possible  intrusion;  but  this  char- 
actenstic  was  never  remembered  against  him,  and  ever- 
more spitefully  repeated,  as  in  the  case  of    his  great 
friend.      In  Eckennaun's    Conversations,   Goethe  is  re- 
ported as  liaving  called  Schiller  "an  aristocratic  nature," 
which  he    certainly  was;    but  Goethe   was    only  more 
democratic  tlirough  the  wider  range  of  his   intellectual      \ 
interests.     It  is  remarkable  what  strong  hannonies  held       \ 
the  two  together,  and  what  equally  strong  antagonisms 
were  powerless  to  drive  them  apart.  -\ 

I  had  a  special  interest  in  ascertaining  the  physical 
characteristics  of  both.     One  would  suppose  this  to  be      \ 
an  easy  matter,  but  it  was  by  no  means  so.     In  regard 
to  height,  weight,  complexion,  color  of  hair  and  eyes, 
there  was  a  variety  of  memories  J  even  those  who  had 
known  the  poets  living  seemed  to  color  their  knowledge      \ 
by  some  reflected  popular  impression.    Rietschel's  group,      ' 
in  the  square  before  the  theatre,  is  a  direct  violation      ( 
of  the  truth.    The  two  figures  are  colossal,  being  nine 
feet  high ;  and  Schiller,  who  is  standing  erect,  with  his     .  \ 
head  thrown  back,  as  he   never   carried  it  during  the 
last  years  of  his  life,  is  about  two  inches   taller  than     \ 

J 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  173 

Gocthp. '  Now,  Goetlie's  stature  was  certainly  not  more 
than  five  feet  ten  inches,  and  probably  a  little  less;  his 
very  erect  carriage  and  wonderfully  imposing  presence 
made  him  seem  taller.  Schiller,  on  the  contrary,  was 
said  to  bo  during  his  life  the  tallest  man  in  the  Grand- 
Duchy;  his  height  was  six  feet  three  inches.  But  his 
gait  was  loose  and  awkward;  he  generally  walked  with 
stooped  shoulders  and  bent  head,  and  only  his  keen, 
intense,  aspiring  face,  liis  broad  brow,  and  largo, 
gentle  eyes,  of  a  color  varying  between  blue,  gray, 
and  pale-brown,  made  him  personally  majestio  and  im- 
pressive. 

Goethe  had  dark-brown  hair  and  cyos,  the  latter 
largo  and  almost  pretematurally  luminous,  His  com- 
plexion, also,  was  more  olive  than  fair;  the  nose  nearly 
Roman,  but  with  t.  Greek  breadth  at  the  base,  and  sen- 
sitive, dilating  nostrils;  the  mouth  and  chin  on'  the 
sculptor's  line,  ample,  but  so  entirely  beautiful  that 
they  seemed  smaller  than  their  actual  proportions.  His 
face  was  always  more  or  less  tanned;  he  rarely  lost  the 
brand  of  the  sun.  In  his  later  years  it  became  ruddy, 
and  a  slight  increase  of  fullness  effaced  many  of  the 
wrinkles  of  age.  Stieler's  portrait  (now  in  the  Goethe 
mansion)  painted  when  the  poet  was  eighty,  expresses 
an  astonishing  vital  power.  Preller  once  said  to  me: 
"There  never  was  such  life  in  so  old  a  man!  If  a  can-, 
non-baU  had  suddenly  grazed  my  head,  I  could  not  hav^ 
boon  more  startled  than  when  I  heard  of  his  death.    I 


174  £SSAyS  AND  NOTES. 

felt  sure  that  he  would  live  to  be  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  old!" 

If  Goethe  illustrates  as  scarcely  any  other  poet  (yet 
we  imagine  both  Homer  and  Shakespeare  to  have  pos- 
sessed the  same)  the  perfect  accord  of  intellectual  and 
physical  forces,  Schiller  is  equally  remarkable  as  an  ex- 
ample of  a  mind  triumphing  over  incessant  bodily  weak- 
nesses and  torments.  During  fourteen  years,  he  never 
knew  a  day  of  complete,  unshaken  health.  He  was  fair 
and  freckled,  with  so  delicate  a  skin  that  the  slightest 
excitement  of  his  blood  blushed  through  it.  His  thin, 
aggravated,  aquiline  nose  was  so  conspicuous  that  he 
often  laughingly  referred  to  it  as  the  triumphant  result 
of  constant  pinching  and  pulling  during  his  school  days* 
His  chin  was  almost  equally  prominent,  giving  him 
what  his  sister  Christophine  called  a  "defiant  and  spite 
ful  under  lip."  His  shock  of  hair,  not  parting  into  half- 
curls  like  Goethe's,  but  straight  and  long,  was  of  a  yel- 
low-brown hue,  "shimmering  into  red,"  as  Caroline  von 
Wolzogen  poetically  says.  The  picture  of  him  touches 
our  sympathies,  as  his  bust  or  statue  always  does,— 4)er- 
haps  because  he  represents  suffering  and  struggle  so  pal- 
pably. Beside  him,  Goethe  seems  to  stand  crowned  by 
effortless  achievement.  But  what  a  pair  they  are ! 
Rietschel's  great  success  in  his  statues  lies  in  his  subtle 
expression  of  their  noble  friendship.  Goethe's  hand  on 
Schiller's  shoulder,  and  the  one  laurel  wreath  which 
the  hands  of  both  touch  in  such  wise  that  you  cannot 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  175 

be  sure  wliicli  gives  or  which  takes,  eymbolizo  a  reality 
far  too  rare  in  the  annals  of  literature. 

The  theatre  is  built  upon  the  ashes  of  the  old  one, 
which  was  burned  down  about  the  year  1825,  It  is 
small,  but  charmingly  bright,  agreeable  and  convenient. 
Here,  as  in  other  small  German  capitals,  families  take 
their  tickets  for  the  season,  ladies  go  alone  when  they 
have  no  company,  and  good  manners  on  the  part  of  the 
public  are  as  certain  as  in  any  private  society.  In  fact 
the  tenor  and  the  soprano,  or  the  tragic  hero  and  the 
heroine,  are  quite  likely  to  be  a  part  of  the  society  of 
the  place.  They  are  government  servants,  appointed  by 
the  ruler,  rewarded  by  frequent  leaves-of-absence  v/hen 
faithful,  and  pensioned  when  old  or  invalided.  The  or- 
ganization of  the  theatre  as  an  institution  of  the  state 
has  its  disadvantages,  and  such  as,  in  our  country, 
would  perhaps  be  insufferable:  but  it  certainly  elevates 
dramatic  art,  purifies  it,  and  establishes  it  in  its  tnie 
place  among  the  agents  of  civilization. 

A  few  days  after  my  arrival  in  Weimar,  Schiller's 
"Wallenstein — the  entire  trilogy — was  given.  Knowing 
that  the  theatre  was  still  faithful  to  its  old  tradi- 
tions, and  perhaps  a  little  more  strictly  bo  under  the 
Intendancy  of  Baron  von  Loen,  I  went  there  at  an 
early  hour,  expecting  to  get  my  former  place  in  the 
front  of  the  parquet,  among  a  company  of  most  in- 
telligent ladies,  every  one  of  whom  came  unattended. 
But   I  found  only  a  single   seat   vacant,   in  one   of 


176  £SSAyS  AND  NOTES. 

the  rear  boxes:  the  building  waa  crammed  to  the 
very  summit  of  the  gallery.  And  there  was  hardly 
a  person  present  but  had  seen  the  play  a  score  of 
times  1 

I  never  saw  anything  else  so  perfectly  put  upon 
the  stage  as  "TVallenstein's  Camp/*  the  first  part  of  the 
trilogy.  A  dialogue  in  verse,  though  never  bo  pictu- 
resque and  animated,  with  the  merest  thread  of  action, 
I  had  fancied,  might  be  endured  upon  boards  which 
had  witnessed  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles  revived,  but 
must  be  sufficiently  tedious  to  one  accustomed  to  the 
hectic  melodrama  of  our  day*  But  a  broad,  evernshift* 
ing  background  of  by-play,  upon  which  I  had  not  reck- 
oned, was  here  created.  Just  as  the  two  poets  had 
planned  the  representation  of  the  piece,  so  it  was  given 
now.  AVhile  Tertzky's  carabineers,  Ilolker's  Jager,  or 
Butler's  Dragoons  were  speaking,  there  was  all  the  bus- 
tle of  a  great  camp  of  motley  mercenaries  behind  them. 
The  soldiers  played  dice,  the  vivandiere  was  busy  with 
her  canteen,  officers  stalked  past,  guards  presented  arms, 
trumpets  were  blo\vn  in  the  distance,  and  the  situation 
discussed  by  the  speakers  was  made  real  in  the  costumes 
and  actions  of  the  groups  which  constantly  formed  and 
dissolved.  Goethe  despotically  insisted  on  the  smallest 
part  being  as  carefully  played  as  the  greatest:  an  actor 
who  surrounded  himself  with  inferior  players,  to  create 
a  more  conspicuous  foil  to  his  own  performance,  was 
never  tolerated  upon  the  "Weimar  stage.    I  suspect  that 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR.  177 

bad  playing  in  the  most  indifferent  rdle  would  not  bo 
tolerated  tliere  now. 

The  fierce  and  stirring  soldiers'  song,  at  the  close, 
roused  the  audience  as  if  they  now  heard  it  for  the  first 
time.  Every  actor  sang  his  appropriate  stanza,  and  the 
orchestra  grandly  supported  them.  Then  the  curtain 
rose  upon  "The  Piccolomini,"  with  its  crowd  of  martial 
characters.  Their  perfonnanco  was  unequal,  but  they 
were  at  least  very  clearly  and  carefully  individualized. 
I  was  so  deeply  interested  in  hearing  iambic  blank 
verso  correctly  read,  for  the  firet  time  in  my  life,  that 
I  paid  but  slight  attention  to  the  representation  of  char- 
acter, I  had  listened  so  long  and  vainly,  in  other  thea- 
tres, that  I  had  ceased  to  expect  what  I  now  heard;  but 
surprise  was  soon  lost  in  a  delight  which  was  renewed 
with  every  speaker.    Herein  they  were  all  satisfactory. 

This,  also,  we  owe  to  Goethe.  His  programme  of 
instructions  to  the  players  under  his  authority  is  less 
concise  than  Hamlet'Sj  but  it  is  equally  clear  and  much 
more  minute  and  practical.  I  have  seen  few  actors  on 
the  English  boards  who  could  not  yet  learn  something 
from  it.  His  direction  for  the  reading  of  blank  verse 
is  the  single  correct  method;  he  insists  that  the  meas- 
ured lines  shall  be  made  recognizable  to  the  hearer, 
not  by  a  mechanical  cadence,  which  would  soon  become 
intolerable,  but  by  delicate  infiections  and  rests,  not  so 
marked  as  the  pauses  of  punctuation,  but  just  enough 
to  prevent  the  verse  from  lapsing  into  prose. 


178  ksSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

Our  English  actors  and  elocutionists,  on  the  con- 
trary, are  not  satisfied  unless  they  make  blank  Terse  en- 
tirely prosaic  in  its  pauses.  They  read,  not  by  the  me- 
trical feet,  but  wholly  by  the  punctuation;  and  many 
of  them,  where  the  phrase  overruns  the  line,  actually 
hasten  the  movement  in  order  to  avoid  even  the  sus- 
picion of  a  pause.  Take,  as  an  instance,  Bryant's 
Thanatopsis,  and  we  shall  at  onco  see  how  they  read 
the  opening  lines:— 

**To  him,  who,  in  the  love  o!  Kature, 
Holds  communion  with  her  visible  forms, 
She  si)cnks  a  various  language. 
For  his  gayer  hours  she  has  a  voice  of  gladness, 
And  she  glides  into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild  and  gen« 

tie  sympathy, 
That  steals  away  their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.** 

How  Utterly  the  grave,  majestic  march  of  the  origi- 
nal is  lost,  through  this  false  method  of  reading  1  To 
the  ear,  the  measured  lines  no  longer  exist,  and  the 
metrical  spirit  which  informs  them,  endeavoring  to  as- 
sert itself  in  spite  of  the  reader's  will,  prevents  the 
movement  from  being  wholly  that  of  prose.  There  are 
passages  in  Shakespeare  so  inherently  rhythmical  that 
the  actor  cannot  escape  giving  them  a  partial  music, 
and  just  these  passages  delight  the  hearer,  though  he 
may  never  have  scanned  a  line  in  his  life. 


AUTUMN   DAYS   IN    WEIMAR,  179 

In  listening  to  "The  Piccolomini,"  I  followed  the 
lines  at  first,  but  rather  as  an  experiment,  to  be  quite 
sure  that  they  were  distinctly  indicated.  Soon,  however, 
I  forgot  to  do  it,  yet  still  continued  to  hear  thera.  That 
is  to  say,  without  the  least  approach  to  monotonous 
sing-song, — with  as  great  a  variety  of  pauses  and  cad- 
ences as  in  prose,  only  far  more  delicately  adjusted — 
the  rhythmical  character  of  the  language  constantly  as* 
sorted  itself.  The  passionate  and  poetical  scenes  of 
the  play  gained  immeasurably  thoreby ;  for  passion,  in 
real  life,  is  seldom  without  a  nid^,  broken  rhythm  of 
its  own.  The  pause  at  the  end  of  a  lino  could  hardly 
be  called  a  pause ;  it  was  the  lightest  lingering  of  tone, 
and  the  observance  of  it  gave  a  certain  dignity  to  char- 
acters which  might  have  seemed  vulgar,  could  they 
have  hurled  out  rapid,  unmeasured  sentences,  as  upon 
our  stage. 

I  was  fortunate  in  chancing  upon  an  unusually  mild 
and  benignant  October,  After  the  first  dull  days,  a 
long  period  of  mellow  sunshine  descended  iipon  the 
outer  world,  while  the  social  life  of  "Weimar,  with  its 
fine  and  ripe  culture,  gradually  opened  to  the  stranger. 
The  statues  lost  their  look  of  loneliness  and  became 
the  familiar,  protecting  Lares  of  the  place:  many  a 
crooked  old  alley  gave  me  glimpses  of  private  garden- 
nooks  where  the  roses  still  budded  in  the  sun;  houses, 
unnoticeable  at  first,  came  to  be  inhabited  by  interest- 
ing phantoms  or  breathing,  welcome  acquaintances;  and 


I 
180  JBfSVAS  AND  NOTES. 

—best  of  all — ^the  interest  which  chiefly  drew  me  to 
"Weimar  was  not  dead  or  indifferent  to  its  inhabitants. 

One  sunny  afternoon,  the  two  scholars  gave  up  their 
nsual  walk  and  rode  with  me  to  the  Ettersburg,  the 
grand-ducal  country-seat,  of  which  we  hear  so  much 
during  the  days  of  Anna  Amalia.  The  Ettersberg,  both 
from  the  "Weimar  and  the  Erfurt  sides,  is  such  an  un- 
promising blank  of  field  and  straight-edged  forest,  that 
I  could  not  well  imagine  how  it  could  hide  such  a  seat 
of  summer  "pleasaunce"  as  the  Burg  must  have  been. 
The  greater  part  of  the  road  thither,  a  distance  of 
four  or  five  miles,  shows  but  the  tamest  scenery.  The 
woodland  along  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  planted  in  a 
poor,  sandy  soil,  contains  few  stately  trees,  and  when 
it  falls  away  northward,  on  the  farther  side,  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  tawny  Saxon  lowlands  is  not  at  all 
cheering. 

The  Ettersberg,  however,  proved  to  be  indented  by 
a  deep,  winding  valley,  upon  the  sheltered  sides  of 
which  there  grew  majestic  groves,  interrupted  by  the 
vivid  green  of  meadows.  "We  passed  a  forester's  lodge, 
which  the  present  grand-duke  copied  from  an  English 
model:  it  was  undeniably  handsomer  than  the  old  Ger- 
man cottage,  yet  it  seemed  a  little  out  of  place.  In  the 
little  village  straggling  along  the  opposite  slope,  his 
Hoyal  Highness  has  also  endeavored  to  give  a  more 
cheerful  aspect  to  the  dwellings,  by  inserting  bow-win- 
dows in  their  fronts,  at  his  own  expense.    About  one 


AUTUMN  DAYS  /A"    WEIMAR,  181 

fourtli  of  the  householders,  I  noticed,  had  accepted  the 
change,  and  their  windows  were  already  bright  with 
geraniums,  pinks  and  rosemary. 

The  castle  stands  on  a  terrace,  partly  cut  out  of  the 
hill-side.  Shelves  of  garden  descend  to  the  meadow, 
and  noble  woods  of  maple,  oak  and  beech  rise  beyond. 
The  ornamental  grounds  are  very  simply  laid  out,  and 
soon  lose  themselves  among  the  natural  features  of  the 
landscape.  The  old  ducal  residence,  a  square  stnicture, 
with  no  architectural  character,  stands  in  front  of  a 
small  quadrangle  containing  guests'  and  servants'  rooms, 
armory,  theatre  and  other  apartments.  The  cr.stodian 
pointed  out  the  room  which  Schiller  inhabited  when  he 
came  hither  to  write  the  last  act  of  Marie  Stuart,  and 
then  admitted  us  into  the  chief  building.  Except  the 
pretty  portraits  of  Karl  August  and  his  brother,  Pnnce 
Constantino,  as  small  boys,  and  a  few  tolerable  pictures, 
the  rooms  contain  little  of  interest.  Princely  furniture, 
nowadays,  has  lost  its  particular  pomp;  anybody  may 
have  a  Japanese  cabinet  or  a  Persian  rug  which  was  a 
rarity  in  the  last  century. 

The  Duchess  Anna  Amalia  is  the  special  ghost  who 
haunts  the  Ettersburg.  In  a  portrait  of  her  from  life, 
hanging  in  one  of  the  chambers,  I  first  clearly  saw  her 
likeness  to  her  uncle,  Frederick  the  Great,  The  eyes, 
of  which  the  old  Court-Marshal  von  Spiegel  used  to  say 
that  few  persons  could  endure  their  full,  level  glance 
without  an  uneasy  Bensation  that  their  secret  souls  were 


182  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

boing  inipoctodi  aro  Btrikinglj  similar  to  his— large, 
clear,  gra^r,  and  qnostionlng  in  tliolr  oxproHsion.  Many 
of  the  early  pranks  of  Goethe  were  played  here,  with 
the  duchess's  encouragement;  though  I  believe  {t  was 
at  Ticf^urt  whore  she  sometimes  rode  out  with  her 
fnends  in  a  hay  wagon,  and  whore  she  once  put  on 
Wiuland^s  coat  when  it  rained.  It  is  a  little  unjust 
that  Goethe  alone  should  bear  the  blame  of  what  was 
then  considered  "nature"  by  one  party,  and  scandalous 
lawlessness  by  another.  There  were  few  courts  at  that 
day  where  dinsipation  took  so  innocent  a  fonn. 

Wo  Htrayed  into  the  woods  and  found  tlie  trunk  of 
un  old  beech-tree,  whereupon  the  members  of  the  illus- 
trious Ettersburg  company  long  ago  carved  their  names. 
Bo  many  of  the  unknown  and  foolish  crowd  have  fol- 
lowed them  that  most  of  the  original  runes  have  dlnap- 
pimred  in  a  labyrinthine  pattern  of  scars.  ])ertuch*B 
was  the  only  name  of  which  we  could  bo  at  all  certain. 
The  bark  is  now  protected  by  a  wire  netting,  which 
worries  the  vandals  without  entirely  keeping  them  of!. 
1  believe  it  was  under  this  tree  that  Goethe  kindled 
his  funeral  pyre  of  sentimental  works,  his  own  "Werther 
among  them,  and  pronounced  an  oration,  the  mere 
rumor  of  which  provoked  fiercer  fires  among  his  sensi* 
tive  contemporaries.  It  was  years  before  Jacobi  could 
forgive  the  burning  of  his  "Woldemar,  a  book  which  is 
now  read  only  by  curious  scholars. 

Tieffurt,  which   is  farther  down  the    Hm,  a   little 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  183 

inorci  than  two  miles  from  "Weimar,  is  almost  as  lonely 
a  residence  as  the  Ettersburg,  but  lies  more  cozily 
nestled  in  the  river  vale.  The  dramatic  entenain- 
ments,  partly  extemporized,  which  were  here  acted  in 
the  open  air,  the  river,  its  banks,  trees,  bushes,  arbors, 
and  a  few  painted  castles  or  cottages  representing  stage 
and  scenery,  were  diversions  of  the  most  charming 
character.  They  are  features  of  an  ideal  literary  life 
which  existed  hero,  for  a  brief  while,  but  never  else- 
where  than  hero.  It  is  a  real  loss  that  our  accounts  of 
them  are  so  slight  and  so  devoid  of  detail.  Tradition 
keeps  knowledge  of  the  spot  where  the  spectators  sat, 
where  the  players  appeared,  where  the  lamps  or  torches 
were  placed;  but  the  performances  themselves  belong 
to  the  earliest  years  of  the  famous  period,  and  there 
is  no  one  living  who  remembers  even  having  heard 
more  of  them  than  has  already  been  written. 

All  the  roads  branching  out  of  the  little  capital,  in 
fact,  have  their  associations,  more  or  less  remote. 
These  may  not  come  swiftly  upon  the  visitor,  for  a 
multitude  of  them  hide  only  in  the  privacy  of  individ- 
ual knowledge.  Through  acquaintance  with  the  society 
of  the  place,  they  arrive  like  pleasant  accidents ;  some 
new  fragment  drops  into  every  intimate  conversation 
upon  the  old  themes,  and  little  by  little  a  purple  at- 
mosphere of  memories  settles  down  over  the  hilk 
which  once  seemed  so  bare.  No;  there  had  been 
nothing  of  that  decadence  which  includes  reaction;  the 


I 

.     -   \ 

184  I^SSAYS  ^ND  NOTES.. 

finer  culture  wUcli  once  made  "Weimar  so  illastrioos 
pervades  its  present  life.  There  is  more  than  a  con- 
ventional reverence  ior  the  great  departed.  Their  in* 
Btinct  of  development,  their  tastes,  their  reaching  to- 
wards eternal  truth  and  eternal  beauty  have  been  trans- 
mitted to  the  descendants  of  those  among  whom  and 
with  whom  they  wrought.  If  achievement  has  ceased, 
the  recognition  which  stimulates  it  remains.  "We  can 
ask  no  more  than  this:  would  that  we  found  it  in 
greater  cities  I 

n. 

Thb  cordial,  trustful  hospitality  with  which  I  was 
received  by  the  old  families  of  Weimar  seems  to  justify 
an  acknowledgment  of  it,  yet  makes  the  task  a  delicate 
one.  The  more  the  sanctity  of  private  life  is  disre* 
garded  by  that  passion  for  personal  gossip  which,  orig- 
inating in  France,  has  taken  such  vigorous  root  in  Amer 
ica,  the  more  it  becomes  an  author's  duty  to  defend  it; 
but  the  line  of  separation  between  this  abuse  and  the 
legitimate  description  of  general  social  characteristics  is 
sometimes  a  little  difficult  to  trace.  I  prefer,  at  least,  to 
omit  the  mention  of  many  pleasant  minor  incidents, 
which  might  the  more  satisfactorily  justify  my  impres- 
sions to  the  reader's  mind,  and  ask  him  simply  to  be- 
.  lieve  in  their  honesty. 

The  prevalent  opinion  throughout  the  rest  of  Ger- 


AUTUMN   DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  3.85 

many  seems  to  be  that  the  society  of  Weimar  retains, 
to  an  unusual  degree,  the  rigid  and  cumbersome  eti- 
quette of  a  past  generation.  Forgetting  that,  a  hundred 
years  ago,  the  court  was  the  freest  in  Germany,  and 
that  here,  almost  for  the  first  time  in  history,  culture 
"waa  absolutely  forced  upon  rank  by  the  eminence  of 
men  who  were  not  of  patrician  birth,  the  Prussian  or 
Saxon  or  Bavarian  repeats  a  few  stories  current  thirty 
or  forty  years  ago,  and  comfortably  thrusts  Weimar  into 
its  proper  place  in  his  ready-mado  theory  of  Gonnan 
society.  Such  a  procedure  may  save  trouble,  but  it  is 
far  from  being  just,  Unfortunately,  there  is  no  intel- 
lectual chemistry  which  will  cast  the  lines  of  education, 
prejudice  and  inherited  tastes  upon  an  infallible  spec- 
trum, and  enable  us  to  estimate  their  value. 

When  I  say  that  I  found  a  freer,  less  conventional 
social  spirit  in  Weimar  than  in  the  other  small  German 
capitals  with  which  I  have  some  acquaintance,  I  am 
quite  prepared  to  hear  the  statement  denied.  The  for-- 
eigner  receives  a  more  kindly  consideration  in  Germany 
than  in  any  other  country  in  the  world,  and  nowhere 
more  so  than  in  Weimar,  where  for  so  many  years  all 
forms  of  foreign  culture  were  so  heartily  welcomed. 
Apart  from  this,  however,  the  hospitality  of  the  old 
families  is  so  simple,  frank  and  cordial  as  to  be  wor- 
thy of  notice  in  these  showy  and  luxurious  days.  At 
informal  evening  receptions,  one  rarely  sees  other  than 
morning   costumes;   the   supper,    served   towards   nine 


186  J^SSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

o'clock,  is  the  ordinary  family  meal,  consiBting  cWefly 
of  too,  boer,  cold  meats  and  salads:  there  is  no  eti* 
quette  beyond  or  confiicting  with  that  of  refined  society 
all  over  the  world ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  graceful  ease 
and  freedom  of  intercourse  which  I  have  sometimes 
sorely  missed  in  circles  which  consider  themselves  far 
more  eminent.  I  admit,  to  the  fullest  extent,  the  intel- 
lectual egotism  of  the  German  race,  for  I  have  often 
enough  been  brought  into  conflict  with  it;  yet  there  is 
an  exceedingly  fine  and  delicate  manifestation  of  social 
culture  which  I  have  nowhere  found  so  carefully  ob- 
served as  in  "Weimar.  I  allude  to  that  consideration 
for  the  stranger  which  turns  the  topics  of  conversa- 
tion in  the  direction  of  his  knowledge  or  his  interests. 
How  often  liavo  I  seen,  both  in  America  and  in  Eng« 
land,  a  foreigner  introduced  to  a  small  circle,  in  which 
the  discussion  of  personal  matters,  whereof  he  could 
have  had  no  knowledge,  was  quietly  continued  until  the 
company  dispersed!  There  is  a  negative  as'  well  as  an 
aftirmative  (or  active)  egotism,  and  the  reserve  which 
our  race  seems  to  value  so  much  often  includes  it. 

The  thorough  and  liberal  culture  of  "Weimar  society 
was  also  a  great  delight  to  me.  More  than  once  it 
happened,  in  an  evening  company  of  twenty  or  thirty, 
young  as  well  as  old,  that  a  French  or  an  English  quot- 
ation suddenly — and  quite  naturally — changed  the  lan- 
guage used  by  all.  On  one  occasion,  I  remember,  I  was 
asked  to  recite  passages  of  an  English  poem  which  had 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    IVEIMAR.  187 

been  the  subject  of  conversation.  "But  I  do  not  know 
any  German  translation  of  it,"  I  remarked.  "Ob,  in 
English,  of  course  1"  was  the  immediate  reply;  and  for 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  afterwards  the  whole  com* 
pany  conversed  in  English  with  the  greatest  fluency  and 
correctness.  Many  of  the  young  ladies,  I  soon  discov- 
ered, were  excellent  artists  as  well  as  musicians;  yet, 
when  I  called  upon  a  distinguished  family  rather  early 
one  day,  a  daughter  of  the  house  excused  herself  very 
gracefully  from  remaining  in  the  salon^  on  account  of 
her  duties  in  the  kitchen.  This  union  of  a  very  high 
culture  with  an  honest  acceptance  of  the  simplest 
household  needs  may  seem  almost  ideal  to  some  of  my 
readers;  yet  they  may  take  heart,  for  wo  have  a  few 
noble  examples  of  it  at  homo. 

For  more  than  a  month  after  my  arrival  there  was 
no  court.  The  Grand-Duke  was  in  Berlin,  the  Grand- 
Duchess  and  the  two  princesses  were  upon  an  estate  in 
Silesia,  and  the  newly-married  heir  of  Saxe- Weimar- 
Eisenach  seemed  inclined  to  prolong,  as  was  natural,  tlie 
freedom  of  his  honeymoon.  But  one  morning  it  was 
announced  that  their  Hereditary  Boyal  Highnesses  were 
quietly  installed  in  their  wing  of  the  castle.  As  one  of 
my  neighbors  at  the  dinner-table,  Baron  von  Salis,  was 
the  young  Grand-Duke's  adjutant,  the  formalities  of  an 
application  for  presentation  were  soon  arranged,  and  the 
same  evening  I  received  an  appointment  for  the  follow-* 
ing  morning.     I  had  met  tho  prince  at  the  Wartbnrg 


188  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

a  year  previous;  but  in  the  mean  time  lie  liad  yieited 
Egypt  and  Palestine,  tasted  the  delights  of  Nile  travel, 
dined  with  my  old  friend  Boker  at  Constantinople,  and 
acquired  many  more  of  those  experiences  which,  when 
mutual,  almost  constitute  an  acquaintance. 

The  only  etiquette  prescribed  is  full  evening  dress. 
I  might  have  walked  to  the  castle,  as  many  of  the  "VVei- 
marese  do,  but  there  is  something  absurdly  embarrassing 
in  being  seen  in  the  streets,  of  a  morning,  in  such  guise, 
and  I  was  fain  to  hide  myself  in  the  hotel-coach.  The 
prince's  marshal.  Baron  von  "Wardenburg,  received  me 
in  the  anteroom,  where  I  found  the  distinguished  Afri- 
can traveler,  Gerhard  Eohlfs,  come  to  say  good-by  before 
starting  for  the  Libyan  Desert.  Eohlfs  is  a  remarkable 
specimen  of  manly  strength  and  beauty,  tall,  blonde- 
haired,  large-limbed,  with  an  Achillean  air  of  courage 
and  command.  Tlie  chain-full  of  orders  on  his  coat 
seemed  quite  unnecessary,  and  the  white  cravat,  I 
thought,  weakened  rather  than  emphasized  his  natural 
distinction. 

Baron  von  Salis  summoned  me  into  the  reception 
room,  and  there  was  time,  before  the  prince  entered,  to 
examine  its  exquisite  furniture,  a  copy  of  a  set  de- 
signed by  Holbein,  made  entirely  by  Weimar  mechan- 
ics, and  presented  by  the  princesses  as  a  wedding  gift. 
Only  drawings  could  represent  its  rich  simplicity  and 
quaint  elegance.  The  carpets,  curtains  and  chair-covers 
were  rigidly  subordinated  to  the  furniture  in  color  and 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR.  189 

design,  'so  tliat  the  room  produced  a  single,  grateful  im- 
pression, like  that  of  a  musical  chord.  The  prince  is 
short  in  stature,  like  his  great-grandfather,  the  illustri- 
ous Karl  August,  and  quite  frank  and  unaffected  in  his 
bearing.  After  a  talk  of  half  an  hour,  he  got  rid  of 
me  very  gracefully  by  rising  to  look  at  one  of  the 
pieces  of  furniture.  Tliis  is  always  the  most  difficult 
part  of  an  official  reception,  for  the  guest  must  neither 
seem  to  hasten  it  nor  fail  to  catch  the  proper  intima- 
tion. 

Descending  to  the  rooms  of  the  Ilcreditary  Grand- 
Duchess,  I  was  received  by  a  handsome  demoiselle 
(Thonneur  and  conducted  to  a  charming  boudoir,  all 
blue  satin  and  amber  tints,  where  sat  her  Eoyal  High- 
ness. She  is  the  daughter  of  Prince  Hermann  of  Saxe- 
Weimar,  a  branch  of  the  family  residing  in  Stuttgart, 
With  her  fair  hair,  clear  blue  eyes,  rosy  complexion, 
and  slender  form,  she  seemed  to  me  English  rather 
than  German,  and  the  slight  differences  of  accent  as  she 
spoke  English  were  those  peculiar  to  Scotland,  Al- 
though nearly  a  stranger  to  Weimar  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage, .  she  became  instantly  and  warmly  popular. 
The  modesty  with  which  she  wore  her  new  rank,  the 
air  of  frankness  and  honesty  which  surrounded  her 
presence,  impressed  even  the  common  people,  as  in  the 
case  of  Alexandra  of  Denmark*  She  rose  to  receive 
me,  pointed  to  a  seat  as  she  resumed  her  own,  and  the 
interview  was  no  more  ceremonious  than  when  a  re* 


190  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

fined  ladj)  in  any  land^  accepts  the  visit  of  a  gentle- 
man. 

Two  or  three  weeks  afterwards,  the  prince  and  prin- 
cess gave  "a  musical  evening,"  at  which,  if  ever,  the 
restraints  of  the  "Weimar  court  should  have  been  mani- 
fested; but  I  must  confess  that  I  entirely  failed  to  dis- 
cover them.  There  may  have  been  considerations  ap- 
parent only  to  the  native  guests,— Kiegrees  of  preced- 
ence, grades  of  salutation,  warmth  or  coldness  measured 
by  a  fine  social  thermometer, — of  wliich  I  was  ignorant. 
I  only  know  that  in  such  refinements  a  hospitable  char- 
ity is  always  extended  to  the  stranger.  I  may  have 
interchanged  the  addresses  "Gracious  Lady"  and  "Ex- 
cellency," used  "Sir  Baron"  instead  of  "Sir  Court- 
Chamberlain,"  or  have  lingered  ten  seconds  too  long  in 
greeting  this  official,  to  the  detriment  of  that  other  en- 
titled to  an  equal  respect:  these  are  matters  with  which 
only  the  native  habit  m  is  expected  to  be  familiar.  The 
effort  of  court  ettiquette  is,  naturally,  to  conceal  itself, 
60  that,  while  all  the  manifold  proprieties  are  observed, 
there  shall  be  a  general  air  of  ease  and  freedom. 

There  were  some  charming  songs  by  the  tenor  of 
the  opera,  some  excellent  piano  performances,  much 
conversation,  and  finally  a  supper  in  the  large  hall.  I 
am  hardly  capable  of  appreciating  the  technical  excel- 
lence of  music,  since  I  take  more  joy  in  a  single  mel- 
ody of  Mozart  than  in  a  whole  score  of  "Wagner,  and 
one  with  such  tastes  soon  finds  himself  upon  delicate 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    IVEIAfAR.  191 

ground  in  "Weimar.  There  was  something  played— ^ 
I  scarcely  know  what  to  call  it  —  which  seemed  to 
consist  of  a  few  wild,  wandering  notes,  with  an  accom- 
paniment which  (to  my  ear)  repeated  the  German 
word  pfefferhuchen^  pfefferkuchen  !  (gingerbread)  without 
change,  until  it  grew  almost  distracting,  I  turned  to 
a  lady  sitting  near  and  indiscreetly  asked,  "le  it  to  be 
pfefferkuchen  forever?"  She  looked  at  mo  with  wide, 
incredulous  eyes,  too  much  astonished  to  be  absolutely 
shocked,  and  answered,  "That  is  by  Liszt."  Of  course 
I  became  dumb. 

Liszt,  I  must  declare,  is  one  of  the  most  incompre- 
hensible  fashions  in  Weimar,  Ilis  arrogant  whims  and 
willful  affectations  are  endured,  so  far  as  I  can  learn, 
without  a  protest.  As  ho  was  absent  during  the  whole 
of  my  stay,  my  impressions  of  the  man  are  derived 
solely  from  his  admirers,  his  power  over  whom  I  can 
only  explain  by  referring  it  to  some  weird  personal 
magnetism.  At  the  festival  given  at  the  Wartburg  in 
honor  of  the  Hereditary  Grand-Duke,  there  was  •  a 
lyrical  drama  written  by  Victor  Scheffel,  the  popular 
author  (some  of  whose  poems  have  been  translated 
by  Leland),  introducing  the  various  historical  per- 
sonages and  scenes,  the  memories  whereof  belong  to 
that  storied  castle.  Liszt  composed  the  music  for 
Scheffel's  poetry,  and  directed  the  orchestra  until  Lu- 
ther came  upon  the  stage :  then  he  solemnly  laid  down 
his  MJUyn,  and  walked   away,  leaving  his  place   \.o  be 


192  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

filled  by  another.  The  incident  was  related  to  me  by 
an  eye-witness.  The  combined  rudeness  and  bad  taste 
of  such  a  demonstration  seems  to  have  given  no  serious 
offence  to  the  court. 

Liszt's  oratorio  of  Christus  was  performed  while  I 
Was  in  Weimar,  and  it  was  rather  amusing  to  notice 
the  determined  elTorts  to  like  the  work,  among  a  por- 
tion of  the  society  of  the  place.  I  confess,  after  I  was 
informed  that  a  keen,  ear-piercing  sostenuto  on  the  pic- 
colo-flute, represented  tlio  shining  of  the  star  of  Bethle- 
hem, I  was  not  in  a  mood  to  do  justice  to  the  remain- 
der of  tlie  porfortnunco.  MuHic  has  its  dUtinct  limits, 
and  all  schoolrt  arc  false  which » endeavor  to  overstup 
them.  If  sound  can  be  made  so  minutely  descriptive 
as  is  claimed,  we  shall  finally  have  the  ingredients  of 
our  soup  represented  to  us  by  the  band,  as  wo  sit 
down  to  a  fentival  dinner!  However,  I  meant  only  to 
refer  to  the  singular  lordship  which  Liszt  appears  to  ex- 
ercise over  a  society,  the  members  of  which  are  so  un- 
like him  in  race,  creed  and  habits.  That  there  should 
bo  a  crowd  of  young  ladies,  chiefly  foreigners,  waiting 
for  opportunitloH  to  play  before  him  and  liear  him 
play  in  turn,  is  natural  enough,  "NVoro  Goethe  living, 
he  would  doubtless  find  in  the  master  a  new  illustra- 
tion of  what  ho  calls  the  "daimonic"  element  in  hu- 
man nature. 

At  the  supper,  we  were  seated  at  detached  round 
tables,  five  or  six  persons  at  each.    One  of  my  neigh- 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIAfAR,  193 

bore  was  the  Privy-Councilor  Marshall,  a  Scotch  gentle- 
man of  the  best  and  purest  eesthetio  blood,  to  know 
whom  was  one  of  the  fortunes  of  my  visit.  The  secre- 
tary of  the  Grand-Duchess,  the  tutor  of  the  princesses 
in  English  literature,  a  friend  of  Carlyle,  an  admirable 
translator  of  English  poetry  into  German,  as  well  as  a 
poet  in  his  own  right,  ho  would  have  brightened  the 
gloomiest  capital,  and  even  here  he  kept  his  own  dis- 
tinct illumination. 

My  friend  SchoU  took  mo  one  evening  to  a  meeting 
of  the  Society  of  Forty,  of  which  Mr.  Marshall  is 
also  an  old  member,  Dr.  Kohler  read  a  delightful  essay 
on  a  department  of  folk-lore,  including  some  fine 
translations  of  Servian  ballads;  and  then  followed  the 
hearty  supper  of  boiled  carp  with  horee-radish,  and 
venison  with  salad,  which  belongs  specially  to  Germany. 
To  my  surprise,  there  was  quite  as  much  table  oratory 
as  in  America  or  England.  All  the  principal  membere 
were  called  up,  and  in  place  of  grave  dissertations,—* 
which  popular  impression  connects  with  such  occa- 
sions in  Germany, — there  were  brief,  pithy  and  humor- 
ous speeches.  The  society  has  been  in  existence,  I  was 
informed,  for  more  than  forty  yeare;  some  of  the  origi- 
nal membere  are  venerable,  gray-haired  men,  yet  there 
is  no  flagging  in  their  furtherance  of  literary  and 
scientific  interests. 

Toward  the  end  of  November  the  court  returned, 
and  its  hospitalities  were  added  to  the  social  attractions 


194  ^^ 


ys  AND  NOTES. 


of  the  place.  My  Becond  meeting  with  the  Grand* 
Duke  and  his  family  took  place  under  such  exceptional 
circumstances  that  I  cannot  describe  it  without  relating 
other  matters  which  may  seem  unnecessarily  personal. 
The  ladies  of  the  Gustav-Adolf  Verein — a  society 
founded  for  the  support  of  Protestant  pastors  and  the 
maintenance  of  churches  in  those  parts  of  Germany 
where  Protestants  are  few  and  poor — invited  me  to 
give  one  of  a  course  of  lectures  which  they  had  ar- 
ranged in  the  hope  of  increasing  their  funds.  Since  I 
had  done  the  same  thing,  a  year  before,  for  a  branch 
of  the  same  society  in  Gotha,  it  was  not  possible  to 
decline.  I  selected  American  Literature  as  a  subject 
with  which  I  was  most,  and  the  audience  least,  familiar, 
and  also  as  affording  me  the  best  chance  of  dealing  a 
few  blows  at  the  prevailing  German  belief  in  the  all- 
absorbing  materialism  of  American  life. 

The  Lyceum  system  does  not  exist  in  Germany,  as 
yet)  but  a  few  individuals  have  achieved  some  success 
as  lecturers.  Carl  Yogt  and  Biichner,  the  naturalists, 
Jordan,  the  rhapsodist,  and  Frita  Reuter,  as  a  reader 
of  his  Low-German  stories,  have  made  the  profession 
popular  and  remunerative.  This  is  due,  however,  to  a 
special  interest  in  themselves  and  their  subjects,  as 
well  as  to  a  more  picturesque  and  animated  delivery 
than  the  people  have  been  accustomed  to  hear.  Lec- 
tures have  not  yet  become  a  necessary  form  of  popular 
culture,  and  one  reason  is  the  utter  indifference  of  the 


AUTUMN   DAYS  IN    WEIMAR.  195 

average  German  lecturer  to  the  audience  "which  he  ad- 
dresses. Given  his  subject,  he  treats  it  first  in  the 
manner  of  a  college  thesis,  discarding  all  illustrations 
or  applications  which  might  be  adapted  to  the  hearer's 
habits  of  thought;  then,  standing  behind  a  high  desk 
and  two  lamps,  he  fastens  his  eyes  upon  the  manuscript 
and  keeps  them  there  to  the  end,  while  he  reads  in  a 
mechanical,  monotonous  tone,  with  little  inflection  and 
less  emphasis,  I  doubt  whether  an  Athenian  audience 
would  have  tolerated  such  a  manner  of  delivery;  our 
American  audiences  certainly  will  not, 

I  therefore  detennined  to  counteract  the  disadvan- 
tage of  speaking  in  a  foreign  tongue  by  committing  my 
lecture  to  memory,  coming  out  from  behind  the  desk, 
and  addressing  the  audience  face  to  face.  In  addition 
to  illustrative  quotations  in  English  (which  four  out  of 
five  hearers  were  sure  to  understand),  I  selected  a  few 
of  Strodtmann's  admirable  translations,  especially  thait 
of  Poe's  Eaven. 

Thus  prepared,  I  betook  myself  to  the  hall,  and  it 
seemed  like  a  good  omen  that  the  first  lady-directress  of 
the  society  whom  I  met  was  the  granddaughter  of  Wie* 
land.  Kindly  greetings  from  the  grandsons  of  Schiller 
and  Herder  followed,  and  presently  a  stir  in  the  outer 
hall  announced  the  arrival  of  the  grandson  of  Karl  Au- 
gust—  the  present  Grand-Duke,  Karl  Alexander — and 
his  family,  A  row  of  crimson  plush  arm-chairs,  in  front 
of  the 'audience,  was  reserved  for  them.     All  present 


196  ESSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

arose  as  they  entered  and  remained  standing  until  thej 
wore  seated,  after  which,  without  any  introduction  to 
take  ofiE  the  awkwardness  of  the  beginning,  I  entered 
upon  my  task. 

I  will  only  say  of  the  lecture  that  the  passages  I  re- 
cited from  Bryant,  Emerson,  Whittier,  Longfellow,  and 
other  poets,,  seemed  to  be  thoroughly  appreciated  by 
the  audience.  The  Grand-Duchess  frankly  exclaimed, 
"How  beautiful!"  at  the  end  of  Whittier's  Song  of 
the  Slaves  in  the  Desert.  There  was  also  an  evident 
interest  created  in  the  younger  authors  whom  I  men- 
tloiiod,  and  dunng  tlio  Huccecillng  days  I  was  iiskod 
many  (^ueHtloiis  concerning  Stedtniin,  Btoddiird,  Aldrich 
and  Bret  Ilarte.  If  the  assertions  I  made  in  regard  to 
our  culture  seemed  a  little  aggressive  (since  they  wore 
directed  against  an  existing  misconception),  they  wore 
none  the  less  received  in  the  most  hospitable  manner, 
llinl  I  been  H\iro  of  i\^  many  and  as  friendly  hearers  in 
otber  German  cities,  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  un- 
dertake a  missionary  tour  in  the  interest  of  our  litera- 
ture. 

The  Grand-Duko  is  a  talb  handsome  man,  of  about 
fifty-five,  with  a  slight  resemblance  to  his  cousin,  Alex- 
ander II.  of  Russia.  He  cherishes  the  literary  tradi- 
tions of  "Weimar,  yet,  apart  from  these,  keeps  himself 
acquainted  with  all  contemporary  literature  and  art.  At 
his  table,  the  next  day,  he  began  immediately  to  speak 
of  Poo,  whoso  poem  of  the  Raven  he  had  never  before 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR.  197 

heard,  "The  conception  is  terrible,"  he  said,  **0f 
course  the  Raven  can  only  symbolize  Despair,  and  ho 
makes  it  perch  upon  the  bust  of  Pallas,  as  if  Despair 
even  broods  over  Wisdom."  It  was  a  subtle  remark; 
the  thought  had  never  occurred  to  me  before,  and  I 
doubt  whether  it  has  been  expressed  in  any  criticism 
upon  the  poem,  •  The  Grand-Duke  spoke  in  enthusiafctio 
terms  of  Hawthorne's  works,  and  seemed  also  to  bo 
greatly  pleased  with  Mr,  Calvert's  recent  volume  on 
Goethe.  "I  still  distinctly  remember  Goethe,"  he  said, 
"I  can  never  forget  his  grand  presence,  especially  his 
magnificent,  luminous  eyes." 

During  a  later  visit  to  Weimar,  when  I  took  tea  at 
the  Belvedere,  a  summer  castle  about  three  miles  from 
the  town,  the  Grand-Duke  remarked,  "  We  have  just 
been  reading  Goethe's  Pandora,  for  the  first  time;  now 
I  suppose  you  have  read  it,  long  ago."  "Yes,"  I  an- 
swered, "but  I  should  like  to  hear,  first,  what  impres- 
sion it  makes  upon  you."  "It  is  wonderful!"  he  ex- 
claimed; "why  is  such  a  poem  not  better  known  and 
appreciated?"  Why,  indeed?  Why  is  Milton's  Para- 
dise Regained  snubbed  by  most  readers  and  critics? 
Why  is  not  Landor  popular?  Why  is  the  statuesque 
element  in  poetry,  the  glory  of  proportion  and  repose, 
the  creation  of  a  serene  world,  over  which  hangs  "an 
ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air,"  so  strange  and  foreign  to  the 
tastes  of  our  day?  It  is  enough  to  ask  the  question; 
we  need  not  vex  ourselves  in  the  search  for  an  answer. 


198*  £SSAVS  AND  NOTES.  . 

The  two  princesses,  Marie  Alexandrine  and  Eliza- 
beth, are  young  ladies  of  such  clear  and  distinct  indi- 
Yiduality  as  is  rarely  found  within  the  guarded  limits 
of  court  life.  They  have  had  all  possible  advantages 
of  education,  and  are  unusually  accomplished  in  lan- 
guages and  music,  but  each  has  none  the  less  devel- 
oped her  own  independent  views  of  art  and  life.  The 
Princess  Marie  surprised  me  one  day  by  saying,  "  I 
have  just  read  De  Tocqueville's  Democracy  in  Amer- 
ica ;  is  it  a  correct  account  of  your  institutions  ? ''  I  re- 
plied that  it  was  the  best  representation  of  our  political 
system  ever  made  by  a  foreign  writer.  "But,"  she 
continued,  "I  am  told  by  Americans  that  it  is  quite 
false;  that  everything  has  in  reality  changed  and  de- 
generated.'* "Were  they  native-bom  Americans,  or 
German- Americans,  who  told  you  this?'*  I  asked.  As  I 
suspected,  they  belonged  to  the  latter  class. 

It  was  easy  to  explain  that  a  temporary  corruption 
In  political  practices  does  not  affect  the  principles  upon 
which  a  government  is  founded*  The  class  of  German- 
Americans  to  which  I  referred  is  one  which  has  done 
tts  positive  harm  in  Europe.  It  may  not  be  numerous, 
but  it  is  loud  and  active  because  such  expressions  are 
always  welcome  in  reactionary  circles,  and  thus  seem  to 
give  a  social  prestige  to  the  utterers.  There  are,  un- 
fortunately, too  many  external  circumstances  which  may 
be  given  as  confirmation;  and  an  American  who  keeps 
unshaken  faith  in  his  republic  and  the  integrity  of  its 


•     AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR.  109 

people  cannot  easily  make  the  grounds  of  that  faith  in- 
telligible to  strangers. 

One  of  my  most  interesting  and  valued  acquain- 
tances was  a  lady,  who,  nearly  as  old  as  the  cen- 
tury, still  retained  all  the  freshness  of  intellect  and  sen- 
sibility of  heart  which  have  made  her  life  beautiful. 
Related  as  she  is  to  one  whom  Goethe  selected  as  the 
type  of  one  of  his  noted  characters,  the  most  prominent 
figure  in  her  memory  is  the  poet's.  As  a  child,  she  re- 
garded him  as  her  stately  fairy,  coming  with  gifts  and 
kindly  words;  as  a  girl,  she  loved  him  as  the  paternal 
friend  to  whom  no  unfavorable  representations  could 
make  her  disloyal;  and  as  a  woman,  she  saw  and  en- 
joyed the  serenity  of  his  closing  years.  Iler  conversa- 
tion abounded  with  pictures  of  the  past,  so  simple,  yet 
of  such  assured  outline  that  they  were  almost  palpably 
visible  to  my  own  eyes,  and  many  a  light,  accidental 
touch  helped  to  make  clearer  the  one  central  form. 
Out  of  many  incidents,  each  unimportant  in  itself,  a 
quality  of  character  may  became  gradually  manifest,  and 
to  this  end  my  studies  were  directed.  Through  the 
memories  of  those  who  had  intimately  known  Goethe, 
I  caught  a  multitude  of  reflected  gleams  of  his  own 
nature;  but  I  cannot  repeat  them  as  detached  fragments 
without  going  too  far  beyond  the  scope  of  this  article. 

Both  the  grandsons  of  the  poet  were  absent  during 
the  greater  part  of  my  first  stay  in  "Weimar.  Late  m 
the  autumn,  the  younger—Baron  Wolfgang  von  Goethe 


200  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

—returned,  and  took  up  his  residence  in  the  old  man- 
sion on  the  present  Goethe-Platz  formerly  called  the 
Frauenplan.  I  met  him  there,  one  dark  November 
evening.  For  the  first  time  I  entered  the  door,  upon 
the  outside  of  which  I  had  gazed  so  longingly,  at  inter- 
vals of  time,  during  twenty  years.  A  hall,  paved  with 
stone,  turns  to  the  right  as  you  enter,  leading  to  the 
foot  of  the  long,  gently-sloping  stair-case,  which  Goethe 
ordered  built  after  his  return  from  Italy.  At  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  on  a  pedestal  running  across  the  end  of 
the  hall,  are  copies  of  antique  statues,  including  a  faun 
and  a  hound;  at  the  top  there  is  a  good  cast  of  the 
beautiful  group  of  San  Ildefonso,  Death  and  Immortal- 
ity. Here  the  word,  "  Salve,"  painted  on  the  floor,  in- 
dicates the  entrance  to  the  rooms  where  Goethe  re- 
ceived visitors;  now,  with  all  their  relics  and  treasures, 
inaccessible  to  the  public.  The  whole  of  the  first  story, 
in  fact,  is  at  present  unused,  except  for  the  purpose  of 
preservation;  the  family  occupies  only  the  upper  floor, 
under  the  roof. 

The  old  servant  conducted  me  along  a  narrow  pas- 
sage at  the  rear  of  the  house,  to  the  foot  of  a  spiral 
staircase.  I  now  saw  that  there  was  a  rear  building, 
invisble  from  the  street,  and  separated  from  the  front 
by  a  small  court-yard.  At  the  time  it  was  built,  the 
house  must  have  been  unusually  spacious.  The  stair- 
case led  to  the  upper  floor,  the  rooms  on  which  are 
small    and    not    very    conveniently    disposed:    during 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR,  201 

Goetlie's    life    tliey    were    appropriated    to   the    many 
guests  who  enjoyed  his  hospitality, 

Wolfgang  von  Goethe  met  me  in  the  ante-room  and 
led  the  way  to  his  own  apartment,  looking  upon  the 
square.    As  he  sat  opposite  to  me,  with  the  lamp-light  ♦ 
falling  strongly  upon  his  face,  I  could  not  help  turning  ♦ 
from  him  to  Stieler's   portrait    of    Goethe  (painted  in 
1828)  which  hung  upon  the  wall.     Except  the  chin  and 
lower   lip,    which    have    a    different    character   in    the 
grandson,  I  found  a  striking  and  very  unexpected  re- 
semblance.    There  were  the  same  large,  clear,  lambent 
eyes,  the  same  high  arched  forehead,  and  strong,  slightly 
aquiline   nose.     The  younger  Wolfgang  is  also  a  poet, 
whose  talents  would  have   received  better   recognition 
had  he  borne  any  other  name.    His  poem  of  Erlinde  is 
fantastically  imaginative,  it  may  be  said;  yet  it  contains 
passages    of   genuine    creative    power   and  beauty.      It 
never  could  become  popular,  for  it  is  a  poem  for  poets: 
the  author  writes  with  an  utter  forgetfulness  of  the  au- 
dience of  his  day.    He  was  bom,  and  grew  up,  in  an 
atmosphere  which  isolated  him  from  the  rapid  changes 
in  taste  and  thought  and  speculation  that  have   come 
upon  the  world  since  his  grandfather's  death;  and  now, 
he  and  his   elder   brother  are  constantly  censured,  in 
Germany,  simply  because  they  are  not  other  than  they 
naturally  and  inevitably  are.    The  possession  of  an  il« 
lustrioufl  name  is  certainly  a  great  glory,  but  it  may 
also  become  an  almost  intolerable  burden. 


203  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

The  room  wa«  filled  with  son  venire  or  miggestions 
of  Goethe.  There  were  Bome  of  his  drawings;  pictures 
by  his  friends,  Haekert  and  Tischbein ;  a  portrait  of  his 
son,  August,  and  another  of  the  beloved  daughter-in-law, 
Ottilie,  who  died  only  a  year  before  my  visit.  She  and 
her  sons  were  brought  nearer  by  their  kindness,  in 
former  years,  to  the  one  nearest  to  me;  and  this  blend- 
ing of  half-personal  relations  with  the  task  I  bore  in 
my  mind,  and  the  flashing  revelations  of  the  master's 
face  and  voice  in  the  face  and  voice  I  saw  and  heard, 
made  my  visit  an  overpowering  mixture  of  reality  and 
illusion,  which  I  can  hardly  yet  separate  in  memory. 
The  conversation  was  long  and,  to  me,  intensely  inter- 
esting. Many  circumstances,  which  I  need  not  now 
particularize,  made  my  object  appear  diflScult  of  attain- 
ment; but  I  was  met  with  a  frankness  which  I  can 
best  acknowledge  by  silence. 

Some  days  afterwards,  I  called  on  a  sunny  morning, 
and  Ilerr  von  Goethe  accompanied  me  through  the 
court-yard  and  a  passage  under  the  rear  building  into 
the  old  garden,  which  was  Goethe's  favorite  resort  in 
fine  weather.  A  high  wall  divides  it  from  the  narrow 
street  beyond,  and  later  houses  shut  out  the  view  of 
the  park  which  it  once  commanded.  But  the  garden- 
ground  is  spacious,  secluded,  and  apparently  unchanged 
in  all  its  principal  features.  Two  main  alleys,  edged 
with  box,  cross  in  the  centre ;  there  is  an  old  summer- 
house  in  one  of  the  farther  comers;  ivy  and  rose-trees 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN    WEIMAR.  203 

grow  at  their  own  wild  will,  here  and  there,  and  the 
broad  beds,  open  to  the  sun,  show  a  curious  mixture  of 
weeds,  vegetables,  and  flowering  plants.  Directly  over^ 
looking  the  garden  are  the  windows  of  Goethe's  library 
and  study,  and  there  is  the  little  door  of  the  private 
staircase  by  which  ho  descended  to  take  tlie  air  and 
watch  the  metamorphoses  of  plants,  The  shutters  were 
closed:  the  whole  aspect  of  the  building  was  forlorn 
and  dilapidated,  in  keeping  with  the  lawless  growths 
of  the  garden,  A  cold  light,  an  imagined  rather  than 
real  warmth,  fell  from  the  low  Northern  sun,  and  the 
frost  was  hoar  upon  leaves  in  shady  comers.  We 
walked  up  and  down  the  central  alley  for  a  long  time, 
but  I  cannot  remember  that  much  was  said  by  either. 

My  last  visit  to  Weimar  found  the  elder  grandson, 
Walter  von  Goethe,  at  home,  and  the  younger  absent. 
The  brothers  never  act,  even  in  the  slightest  matters, 
without  consultation,  and  my  hope  of  seeing  the  closed 
halls  and  chambers  in  the  Goethe-house  depended  on 
the  consent  of  both.  Fortunately,  the  question  had  been 
discussed  between  them  in  the  mean  time,  and  I  was 
most  kindly  and  cordially  received  by  Walter  von 
Goethe.  His  inheritance  of  genius  manifests  itself  in  a 
passion  for  musical  studies,  and-  those  who  know  him 
intimately  assert  that  a  sufficient  necessity  might  have 
made  him  a  successful  composer.  He  is.  a  short,  slen- 
der, graceful  man  of  fifty-five,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes, 
and  a  strong  likeness  to  his  mother  and  her  family.    In 


204  £ssAys  and  notes. 

a  day  or  two  my  ireqnest  was  granted,  and  a  time  fixed 
for  its  fulfillment,  as  the  keys  of  the  rooms  are  kept 
by  a  daughter  of  Schuchart,  Goethe's  last  secretary.  It 
had  been  a  long  time,  my  friends  in  "Weimar  informed 
ine,  since  any  strangers  had  been  allowed  access  to  the 
rooms. 

On  a  bright  June  morning  1  once  more  ascended  the 
broad  staircase  and  was  met  at  the  word  Salve  by  my 
host,  who  opened  the  door  beyond  it.  The  apartments 
consist  of  an  anteroom  and  a  large  ioton^  occupying  the 
greater  part  of  the  first  story.  It  was  really  a  museum 
of  art  which  I  entered,  crowded  with  cabinets,  cases, 
busts,  and  pictures.  Many  of  the  objects  have  their 
own  separate  histories,  and,  as  illustrations  of  phases  of 
Goethe's  life  or  passages  from  his  works,  cannot  be 
spared.  There  is  still,  for  instance,  the  picture  which 
he  bought  in  Frankfort,  as  a  boy,  the  selection  being 
allowed  to  him  by  his  father,  as  a  test  of  his  natural 
taste  J  there  are  illustrations  of  his  Italian  journey  by 
his  companions,  Tischbein  and  Kniep;  Meyer's  copy  of 
the  Aldobrandini  marriage  fresco,  and  many  other  ob- 
jects well  known  to  all  students  of  his  works.  "What- 
ever interest  attracted  Goethe,  though  only  temporarily, 
was  made  the  subject  of  illustration:  he  collected  speci- 
mens from  far  and  near,  in  order  to  possess  himself  of 
all  its  features,  and  thus  fix  its  place  in  the  realms  of 
art  or  knowledge. 

In  the  large  room  there  is  a  small  but  superb  col- 


AUTUMN  DAYS  W    WEIMAR,  205 

lection,  of  Majolica  ware,  another  of  antique  gemSj  an* 
other  of  drawings  by  the  old  masters,  and  another  of 
coins  and  medals.  A  careful  examination  of  these  treas- 
ures would  require  many  hours,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
be  content  with  a  rapid  general  inspection,  leaving 
scores  of  drawers  unopened,  although  my  host  kindly 
offered  to  gratify  any  special  curiosity.  But  on  all 
things  the  stamp  of  the  large  tastes,  the  universal  inter- 
ests of  the  master  remained ;  as  a  creative  man,  no  form 
of  the  crcative  faculty  in  man  was  indifferent,  or  even 
trivial,  to  him.  Ilis  grand  personality  lingered  in  the 
rich,  untenanted  rooms;  and  when  Walter  von  Goethe^ 
turning  to  some  refreshments  which  had  been  placed  in 
the  anteroom,  took  a  glass  of  wine  and  bade  me  wel- 
come in  his  grandfather's  name,  I  could  not  help  say- 
ing, "Pardon  me  if  I  seem  to  be  Aw  guest,  even  more 
than  yours!" 

In  the  right  wing,  connecting  the  front  with  the 
rear  portion  of  the  house,  Goethe's  collection  of  min- 
eralogical  and  geological  specimens  is  preserved.  A 
noted  geologist,  who  examined  it  during  his  life-time, 
informed  me  that  it  contained  only  the  rarest  and 
choicest  articles;  but  from  lack  of  scientific  knowledge 
I  had  no  desire  to  open  the  venerable  cases.  Beyond 
this  wing,  we  first  enter  the  library,  a  narrow  room, 
crowded  with  books.  There  are  probably  from  three 
to  five  thousand  volumes,  nearly  every  one  of  which 
appears  to  have  been  well  used.    All  the  rooms  in  the 


I 


206  £SSAys  AND  NOTES. 

rear  building  overlook  the  garden;  though  small  and 
low,  they  are  full  of  Bun,  and  few  noisea  of  the  town 
reach  them. 

To  enter  Goethe's  study  was  almost  like  an  intm- 
Bion  upon  some  undying  privacy  which  he  has  left  be- 
hind him.  Nothing  in  it  has  been  changed' since  he 
went  forth.  The  windows  were  open;  there  was  a  vase 
of  spring  flowers  on  the  secretary's  table;  one  side  of 
the  room  was  clear  of  furniture,  so  that  the  poet  might 
walk  up  and  down,  as  he  dictated;  his  coffee-cup  and 
spoon  stood  upon  a  little  stand;  a  wicker-basket  held 
his  handkerchief,  and  the  high  desk  beside  the  window, 
where  ho  frequently  wrote  standing,  waited  with  his 
inkstand,  pen,  and  some  sheets  of  the  large,  coarse  fool« 
Bcap  ho  preferred.  On  this  desk  I  also  recognized  a  lit- 
tle statuette  of  Napoleon,  in  bluish  glass,  which  Ecker- 
mann  brought  from  Switzerland,  and  which  Goethe 
prized  as  an  illustration  of  his  own  Farbenlehre.  The 
chairs  and  tables  are  of  the  plain,  substantial  character 
of  tho  last  century;  there  is  neither  carpet  nor  rug  on 
the  floor,  neither  picture  nor  ornament  to  bo  seen;  a 
Bohemian's  garret  could  hardly  bo  so  bare  and  simple. 

A  door  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  study  stood  half 
open.  I  looked  inquiringly  at  my  host;  he  nodded  si- 
lently, and  I  entered.  It  was  a  cell,  rather  than  a 
room,  lighted  by  one  little  window,  and  barely  wide 
enough  for  the  narrowest  of  German  box-beds.  The 
fadod  counterpane  was  spread  over  the  pillow,  and  be- 


AUTUMN  DAYS  IN   WEIMAR,  207 

side  the  head  of  the  bed  stood  an  old  arm-chair  with  a 
hard  footstool  before  it  Sitting  there,  in  the  same 
spot,  with  the  counterpane  over  his  knees,  the  March 
daylight  grew  faint  to  Goethe's  eyes,  and  with  the 
words,  "More  light  I"  this  world  passed  away  from 
him« 

August,  1875. 


WEmAR   IN    JUNE. 

JUNE  IB  late  in  reaching  Northern  Germany,  but  all 
the  fairer  for  its  delay.  The  region  is  a  field 
where  two  climates  meet  and  contend,  so  that,  while 
snow-drops  often  come  M'ith  Febrwary  and  violets  with 
Hurch,  as  in  England,  the  air  kcc])8  its  raw  chillncss 
into  May,  and  frost  is  a  i)08sibility  until  after  the  three 
dreaded  days  of  Pancratius,  Ser\'atius,  and  Bonifaclus. 
Then  the  sun  gains  suddenly  in  |)ower,  and  the  long, 
lingering  twilights  seem  to  come  all  at  once.  Gardens 
that  have  been  wearily  budding  for  a  month,  make  a 
glorluurt  hIiow  of  lilac,  white  and  red  thorn,  and  labur- 
num blo88oinri ;  the  hard,  green  globes  of  the  peony 
burst  into  heavy  ro^cs,  that  lean  on  the  gleaming 
sward ;  but  not  until  the  first  bud  on  the  rose  tree 
u])cns  is  it  really  June. 

There  are  also  two  varieties  of  climate  in  TliUrtngia, 
depending  on  the  elevation  of  the  .'K>il.  A  diilcrenco 
of  four  or  five  hundred  feet  is  equivalent  to  several  de- 
grees of  latitude.  The  river  Saale  and  its  tributaries 
possess  the  deepest  valleys,  and  there  the  chestnut  and 


WEIMAR   IN   JUNE,  209 

walnut  thrive  almost  as  luxuriantly  as  in  Baden,  the 
vine  is  cultivated,  and  the  harvest  begins  three  weeks 
earlier  than  on  the  windy  upland  region.  The  wine 
country  of  the  Saale,  beginning  near  Rudolstadt,  extends 
even  to  the  famous  Golden  Mead,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Ilartz.  About  Naumburg  and  Eossbach,  where  the 
Hussites  were  conquered  by  the  children,  and  Freder- 
ick the  Great  scattered  the  French  army  like  chaff 
with  the  wind  of  his  charge,  you  see  nothing  but  vine- 
yards. It  is  rather  an  acrid  juice  which  they  yield, 
and  the  rest  of  Germany  delights  in  ridiculing  its  claim 
to  the  noble  name  of  wine.  This  is  one  of  the  places 
where  three  men  are  required  to  drink  a  glass, — one  to 
swallow  the  beverage,  and  two  to  hold  him  during  the 
act  I    Claudius,  in  his  Rhino  wine  song,  says, — 

"Thiiringia'8  land,  for  sad  example,  bringcth 
A  stuff  that  looks  like  wine, 
But  is  not  I  he  who  drinkcth  never  singeth, 
Nor  gives  one  cheerful  sign," 

It  would  be  wrong,  however,  to  infer  a  correspond- 
ing sourness  in  the  temper  of  the  inhabitants.  They 
manage  to  extract,  through  that  fine  human  distillation, 
which  no  chemistry  can  quite  fathom,  the  same  genial 
and  kindly  mellowness  of  nature  from  those  "berries 
crude"  as  the  Markgnifler  or  the  vintager  of  the  Pala- 
tinate from  his  warmer  growths.  To  be  sure,  there  is 
here  a  sober  Saxon  exterior,  and  some  aspects  of  life 


210  JSSSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

are  facod  with  apparent  Bovority;  but  frankness,  fidel« 
ity,  and  a  warm  good-fellowsliip  are  the  prevailing 
characteristics.'  At  Nebra,  in  the  valley  of  the  TJnstrat, 
I  once  stopped  at  a  tavern  called  "The  Inn  of  Care," 
the  sign  whereof  was  a  man  with  a  most  lugubrious 
face,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand.  Perhaps  it  was 
meant  to  symbolize  the  condition  of  the  outside  world ; 
for  certainly  there  was  no  care,  nor  sign  of  the  like, 
within  the  walls  of  the  cheerful  and  home-like  hostel. 

In  speaking  of  the  population  of  the  Grand-Duchy 
of  Saxe-Weimar,  I  use  the  name  of  Saxon  in  its  mod- 
em geographical  sense.  The  ancient  tribe,  the  Thiir- 
ingians,  were  a  decidedly  more  genial  and  impressible 
people  than  their  tough  and  Saxon  neighbors  on  the 
north,  The  best  modem  representatives  of  the  latter 
are  the  Scotch,  who  also  retain  much  of  their  physical 
character.  During  the  early  Middle  Ages,  the  Sorbs 
(or  Servians)  pressed  into  Thiiringia  as  far  as  the  Saale, 
but  the  traces  of  their  Slavic  blood  are  now  found 
principally  in  the  mountain  districts.  Even  in  the 
kingdom  of  Saxony  a  great  part  of  the  so-called 
"  Saxon "  population  is  strongly  mixed  with  the  Slavic 
element ;  yet  as  the  mixture  usually  reaches  beyond  all 
traditions  of  ancestry,  it  shows  itself  only  in  features 
Oi'  temperament,  not  in  general  character  and  habits. 
The  Saxons,  then,  are  a  strong,  toiling,  patient  race: 
capable  of  warm  and  constant  attachments;  naturally 
intelligent,  social,  and  with  a  tolerable  sense  of  humor; 


WEIMAR   IN   JUNE.  211 

given  to  enthusiasms  and  equally  liable  to  prejudices, 
yet  neither  so  stubborn  nor  so  egotistic  as  t)xo  North- 
Germans  ;  and  only  delayed  somewhat  in  their  further 
development  by  their  adherence  to  an  easy,  conventional 
habit  of  life. 

When  I  returned  to  "Weimar  in  June,  the  great 
sweep  of  upland  around  the  city  seemed  quite  as  mo- 
notonous in  its  silver-gray  mantle  of  rye-fields  as  under 
the  brown  stubble  of  October;  only  the  gardens  and 
the  park  beside  the  Hm  showed  the  bloom  and  delight 
of  summer.  It  was  a  now  pleasure  to  go  back  to  my 
old  quarters  at  the  Eussischo  Hof,  to  find  the  old  cir- 
cle of  friends  at  the  reserved  end  of  the  dining-table, 
and  to  hear  art  and  literature  taken  up  and  discussed 
as  if  at  the  point  where  I  had  withdrawn  from  the 
conversation  six  months  before.  The  streets,  now,  woro 
full  of  old  acquaintance ;  odors  of  linden-blossoms 
floated  into  the  library  through  open  windows,  and 
when,  in  company  with  Scholl  and  Kohler,  I  walked 
to  Ober-TITeimar  for  the  afternoon  coffee,  the  park 
meadows  were  literally  mats  of  wild  flowers. 

Yet  there  was  less  of  the  past  in  the  air  than  dur- 
ing those  fading  autumn  days.  Ghosts  seem  to  like 
the  smell  of  dead  leaves  better  than  that  of  opening 
roses:  the  overpowering  life  of  nature  which  filled  the 
beautiful  valley  banished  every  shadowy  foot  from  its 
paths,  and  the  lives  of  the  great  poets  receded  far 
away    from    ours.     One  melody,  only,    floated    every* 


818  SSSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

where:  It  waa  the  perfect  voice  of  the  time,  and  every 
■word  wa«  §o  steeped  in  the  only  musical  tones  which 
could  convey  its  spirit  to  the  ear,  that  neither  could 
pospibly  be  remembered  alone.  Goethe  gave  one,  Beet- 
hoven the  other;  and  whoever  knows  both  knows 
them  for  life:—- 

"Wte  herrlich  leuchtet 

Mir  die  Natur  ! 
Wie  gl^zt  die  Sonne, 

Wie  lacht  die  Flur! 
Es  dringcn  BlUthen 

Au8  jedem  Zwelg, 
tJnd  tausend  Stimmen 

Aus  dem  Gcstrduch) 
Und  Freud'  und  Wonne 

Aus  jeder  Brust  \ 
0  £rd\  0  Sonne, 

0  QlUck,  0  Lust !  ** 

I  am  forced  to  quote  the  original,  because  no  one 
can  translate  Goethe  and  Beethoven  at  the  same  time. 
Is  it  not  singular  how  few  poets  have  sung  of  the 
opening  summer?  I  think  there  is  scarcely  a  quotable 
verse  tn  English  before  LowelPs  Day  in  June — which 
wa*  published  twenty  years  before  it  trickled  through 
the  widening  layers  of  appreciation  and  reached  the 
universal  public.  How  many  accomplished  musical 
scholars  have  1  not  found  who  were  quite  ignorant  of 
this  perfect  idyl  of  Beethoven  I-— perfect,  because  it  ex* 


iVEIMAR  IN   JUNE,  213 

actly  repeats  Goethe's  words   in  the  inarticulate  speech 
of  a  kindred  art. 

Thus  we  come  back  again  to  Goethe,  as  we  always 
must  in  Weimar.  Tliere  may  be  some  persons  in  the 
little  capital  who  now  and  then  pass  an  entire  day  of 
their  lives  without  thinking  of  Goethe  or  hearing  his 
name  uttered,  but  I  imagine  they  are  very  few.  The 
stranger,  of  course,  does  not  seek  to  escape  him.  I 
could  not  get  out  of  my  bed  in  the  morning  and  takei 
the  first  eastward  look  from  the  window  without  find- 
ing Herder,  Musacus,  and  Bertuch  in  the  spire  of  the 
Siadtkirche  and  the  trees  of  the  Erholung ;  nor  walk 
through  the  streets  without  noticing  one  that  led  into 
the  Schillerstrasse  or  the  Goethe-Platz ;  nor  look  off  into 
the  country  without  seeing  a  road  that  made  for  the 
Ettersburg,  or  Tieffurt,  or  Berka ;  nor  pick  up  a  news- 
paper, read  a  programme,  or  meet  a  friend,  without  the 
suggestion  of  one  or  all  of  the  names. 

During  this  last  visit  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  one  of 
the  most  estimable  of  women,  whom  I  never  supposed 
I  was  seeing  for  the  last  time.  Although  old— I  be- 
lieve just  as  old  as  the  century— and  somewhat  infirm, 
there  was  so  much  freshness  of  feeling  in  her  speech, 
such  eager  human  interest  in  all  true  and  good  things, 
that  her  spiritual  life  seemed  competent  to  bear  up  the 
failing  body  for  many  years  longer.  When,  six  or 
seven  months  ago,  Alwine  Frommann  died,  one  of  the 
most  intimate  remaining  links  between  Goethe  and  our 


k 


2U  ESSAYS  AND  ^fOTES. 

generation  waa  lost.  Danghter  of  tlie  fonner,  and  sister 
of  the  present  Friedrich  Frommann,  the  publishers  in 
Jena,  she  knew  the  poet  almost  as  a  member  of  her 
family*  He  waa  the  welcome  friend  who  brought  her 
toys  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  the  teacher  and  kindly 
counselor  of  her  years  of  early  maidenliood,  and  tho 
honored  and  beloved  old  man  whose  memory  was  a 
blessing,  as  it  was  a  pride  to  her  whole  life.  Minna 
Ilerzlieb,  the  "Ottilie*'  of  Goethe's  "  Wahherwandtschaf" 
Uiiy^  was  her  f oster-sister ;  and  I  heard  the  same  simple, 
tnithful,  and  easily  intelligible  story  of  Goethe's  rela- 
tions to  Minna,  from  her  o^vn  lips,  as  Mr.  Andrew 
Hamilton  (through  whom  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Alwine  Frommann)  has  since  published  in  The  Con- 
temporary Review. 

Ko  author  has  ever  been  so  persistently  misjudged 
in  regard  to  his  relations  with  women  as  Goethe.  The 
world  forgets  that  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
he  was  the  object  of  the  intenscst  literary  jealousy  and 
hostility,  and  that  the  most  of  the  stories  now  current 
had  their  origin  therein.  The  scandal  occasioned  in 
"Weimar  by  his  marriage  to  Christiane  Vulpius — another 
part  of  his  life  which  has  never  yet  been  correctly  re- 
lated— is  an  additional  source  of  misconception.  The 
impression  thus  produced,  combined  with  a  false  appre- 
hension of  Goethe's  true  character  as  a  man,  have  kept 
alive  to  this  day  the  most  unfounded  slanders.  Schil- 
ler's life  contains  exactly  the  same  number  of  love-pas- 


WEIMAR   IN   JUNE,  215 

sages,  but  they  ceased  to  be  remembered  against  him 
after  he  had  married  a  refined  and  noble-natured  patric- 
ian lady.  Goethe  offended  the  sentiment  of  tho  circle 
in  which  he  moved  less  by  his  non-marriage  tlian  by 
his  final  marriage  with  the  plebeian  Christiane,  the 
much-maligned  woman  whoso  memory  still  waits  for 
justice.  Old  prejudices  and  slanders  have  a  tremendous 
local  vitality.  It  is  rather  a  sorry  business  to  pry  into 
the  intimacies  of  an  individual  life,  even  for  the  sake 
of  explanation  or  defense;  but  one  who  undertakes  tho 
study  of  Goethe  has  no  alternative.  When  tho  beauti- 
ful eyes  of  Minna  Ilerzlieb  looked  at  me  from  tho 
wall,  as  I  listened  to  Alwino  Frommann's  story  of  days 
now  nearly  seventy  years  gone  by,  and  I  saw  many  a 
simple  relic  of  a  man's  guarded  tenderness  for  a  girl's 
transient  enthusiasm,  which  made  the  relation  clear  in 
its  innocence,  I  could  but  lament  anew  the  reluctance 
of  tho  world  to  give  up  its  belief  in  evil, 

A  "Weimar  friend,  one  day,  gave  me  an  amusing  il- 
lustration of  the  blunders  which  even  the  most  careful 
writer  may  make.  "When  Mr.  Lewes  was  in  Weimar, 
collecting  materials  for  his  biography  of  Goethe,  my 
friend,  who  had  made  his  personal  acquaintance^  told 
him  a  story  illustrative  of  the  sentimental  admiration 
which  women,  in  Lavater's  day,  lavished  upon  him. 
The  Marchesa  Branconi,  mistress  of  the  Duke  of  Bruns- 
wick, famous  alike  for  her  beauty  and  her  wit  (Goethe 
and  Karl  August  visited  her  in  Switzerland),  sent  her 


216  £SSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

garters  to  Lavater,  as  the  most  marked  sign  of  homage 
which  she  could  render.  "When  the  biography  was  pub- 
lished, my  friend  was  amazed  to  find  that  the  lines  from 
the  marchesa's  letter  wore  attributed  to  Lavater,  who 
was  thus  made  guilty  of  sending  both  garters  and 
"gush**  to  her!  Assuredly,  no  man  ever  gained  a 
wider  reputation  by  means  of  a  softer  head,  than  Lava- 
ter; but  he  was  hardly  idiotic  enough  for  an  act  like 
this. 

Alwine  Frommann  was  a  charming  specimen  of  the 
old  "Weimar  society.  She  had  that  low,  clear,  gentle 
voice  which  Invites  confidences,  and  she  received  them 
frankly  because  she  was  always  ready  to  return  them. 
"Whenever  she  said  to  a  man,  "I  feel  that  1  can  trust 
you,*'  I  cannot  imagine  that  the  trust  was  ever  be- 
trayed. Her  eyes  were  still  youthfully  soft,  and  her 
smile  exquisitly  sweet.  In  her  dark  silk  dress,  cap,  and 
the  lace  which  was  lior  only  ornament,  leaning  forward 
in  her  earnestness  as  she  spoke  and  making  slight  ges- 
tures with  hei*  delicate  hands,  she  brought  something 
of  the  storied  "  "Wednesday  Circle,"  nearly  all  the  mem- 
bers of  which  she  had  known,  vividly  into  my  imagin- 
ation. For  many  years  she  was  companion  and  reader 
to  the  present  Empress  Augusta,  and  the  Empress's 
nieces,  the  Princesses  of  Saxe-Weimar,  were  her  most 
devoted  friends.  When  1  last  called  upon  her,  she 
exclaimed,  "If  you  had  only  been  ten  minutes  sooner! 
The  dear  princesses  have  just  left." 


WEIMAR  m  yuNE,  217 

Soon,  however,  Bhe  returned  to  the  one  topic  about 
which  she  was  never  weary  of  talking  or  I  of  listen- 
ing. "It  was  simply  impossible  to  know  Goethe  with- 
out loving  him,"  she  said.  "When  I  grew  up  to  girl- 
hood, and  began  to  hear  and  undei-stand  the  old  scan- 
dals, supposing  them  to  be  true,  I  said  to  myself,  *I 
cannot  have  such  a  man  for  a  friend;  I  will  not  see 
him  when  ho  comes  again  1 '  "Well,  ho  came ;  so  frank, 
BO  kindly,  so  fatherly  and  considerate  to  mo  in  every 
word  and  thought,  that  I  could  neither  remember  my 
resolution  nor  believe  the  stories." 

"Do  you  think  this  was  the  usual  impression  ho 
made?"  I  asked. 

"Always, — that  is,  where  he  felt  free  and  uncon- 
strained. Our  servants  were  devoted  to  him,  because, 
with  all  his  personal  dignity,  he  was  so  kind  and  hu- 
man in  his  treatment  of  them.  I  remember  we  had 
once  a  cook,  a  young  woman  from  the  country,  who 
took  great  pains  to  observe  what  dishes  he  particularly 
relished.  When  he  visited  Jena  he  usually  lived  in  our 
garden-house,  and  his  meals  were  carried  to  him  there. 
So,  the  next  time  he  came  over  from  Weimar,  the  cook 
prepared  the  dinner  she  thought  ho  woul4  like.  Goethe 
was  tired  and  hungry,  and  was  8<>  touched  by  this  at- 
tention to  his  tastes  that  he  said  to  her,  *Thou  art  a 
good  child ! '  took  her  head  between  his  two  hands,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  She  rushed  back  to  the 
house,  breathless,  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  eyes  shin- 


2i8  JSSSA^S'  ANl>  NOTES. 

ing  B8  I  never  saw  them  before,  and  said  to  ns,  ^0\ 
he  kissed  me  on  the  forehead  I '  And  for  days  after- 
ward she  moved  about  the  house  with  such  a  quiet, 
serene,  solemn  air,  that  one  could  only  believe  that  she 
felt  the  kiss  as  a  consecration.  Yes,  and  for  me,  too» 
his  friendship  is  a  consecration." 

There  was  a  touch  of  sadness  and  absence  in  her 
tone  as  she  said  this,  and  the  vision  of  the  eye  went 
back  with  the  memory  in  a  pause  which  I  did  not  dare 
to  disturb,  except  to  say  farewelL  As  she  sits  there, 
facing  the  portrait  of  Minna  Ilerzlieb,  with  her  thin 
hands  clasped  under  her  lace  shawl,  and  the  bouquet  of 
red  roses  which  the  Princess  Elizabeth  had  brought 
from  Belvedere  on  the  table,  I  still  see  her. 

From  another  lady,  intimate  with  the  Goethe  family 
from  childhood,  I  heard  many  picturesque  anecdotes  of 
"VVeimar  life;  but  she  was  too  young  to  have  known 
more  than  the  close  of  the  great  era.  One  of  the  dis* 
tinctest  figures  in  her  memory  was  that  of  Frau  von 
Pogwisch,  the  mother  of  Ottilie,  Goethe's  daughter-in- 
law,  a  tall,  determined,  masculine  lady,  with  a  passion, 
occompatiied  by  a  talent  (the  two  are  not  always  found 
together!)  for  playing  upon  the  bugle.  What  free  and 
clear  individualities  the  women  of  that  day  show! 
How  they  strove  to  keep  pace  with  the  men  in  all  cur- 
rent knowledge,  reading  history  and  philosophy,  study- 
ing languages  and  arts,  criticising  and  corresponding! 
Yet  I  cannot  discover  that  any  one  was  the  less  at- 


WEIMAR   IN    JUNE,  ?,19 

tractively  feminine,    or  made  herself    unhappy  by  the 
longing  for  a  prohibited  political  destiny. 

Furthermore,  they  seem  to  have  been  good  house- 
keepers.  Even  the  enemies  of  Christiane  Yulpius  were 
compelled  to  allow  her  that  virtue,  Schiller's  Lotto 
kept  good  count  of  her  groschen  when  she  took  table- 
borders  in  Jena,  and  I  dare  say  she  would  have  made 
both  ends  meet  evenly  but  for  her  husband's  rather 
thoughtless  hospitality.  It  was  hardly  fair  to  bring  in' 
six  guests  for  a  late  supper,  when  there  was  only  a' 
small  bit  of  roast  veal  and  a  big  dish  of  lettuce  in 
the  house,  Frau  von  Stein,  at  her  estate  of  Koch- 
berg,  was  once  surprised  by  a  message  that  the  duke 
would  arrive  in  an  hour  or  so,  to  dine  with  her. 
There  was  small  time  for  preparation,  and  very  little 
in  the  house.  A  good,  savory  soup,  to  be  sure;  no 
German  household  can  fail  there;  some  potatoes,  and 
a  single  haunch  of  venison,  the  latter  a  lucky  gift, 
just  received.  Orders  were  given,  house  and  hostess 
put  on  their  best  appearance,  the  duke  arrived,  and 
dinner  was  announced.  All  went  well  until  the  venison 
came,  when— oh,  woel — the  attendant  footman  awk- 
wardly tilted  the  dish  in  carrying  it  to  the  table,  and 
the  haunch  fell  upon  the  floor, 

Frau  von  Stein,  "with  death  in  her  heart"  (as  the 
French  novelists  say),  smiled  and  serenely  said,  "Take 
it  away,  and  bring  the  other  I" 

The  haunch  was  taken  out,  regamished,  and  brought 


JSSSA  ys  AND  NOTES. 

back  again.  The  hostess  took  her  carving-knife  and 
fork,  flliced  the  most  tempting  portion,  and  offered  it 
to  Karl  August,  with  the  words,  "Will  your  royal 
highness  have  a  piece  of  thiaf^^ 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered,  "  if  you  please,  I  will 
take  a  piece  of  the  firsV^  He  waB  too  shrewd  not  to 
perceive  the  artifice,  and  too  plain  in  his  habits  to 
care  for  the  accident. 

I  made  the  acquaintance,  in  "Weimar,  of  Count 
York  von  'Wartenl)erg,  son  of  Field-Marshal  York  of 
the  Napoleonic  wars,  a  gentleman  of  fine  taste  and  cul- 
ture; and  Baron  "Wendelin  von  Maltzahn,  whose  scholar- 
eliip  needs  no  other  illustration  than  his  edition  of  Les- 
sing's  works.  In  fact,  there  is  scarcely  any  province  of 
the  society  of  the  place  without  a  few  distinguished 
members;  but  the  culture  of  the  aristocratic  class  seems 
most  prominent  because  it  is  so  unusual  elsewhere. 
The  house  of  the  State  Councilor  Stichling,  the  grand- 
son of  Herder,  is  the  centre  of  the  most  agreeable  cir- 
cle; and  those  old  friends,  Chief-Librarian  SchOU  and 
the  artist  Preller,  know  how  to  make  the  evenings 
speed  with  anecdote  and  friendly  repartee. 

My  summer  visit  waa  all  too  brief.  I  could  only 
verify  a  few  points,  and  perform  the  pleasant  social 
duties  required  by  the  hospitality  I  had  enjoyed,  when 
the  time  came  for  me  to  say  farewell.  The  Grand-Duke 
and  his  family  were  then  staying  at  the  Belvedere,  a 
sunmier  castle  on  an  airy  hill,  about  three  miles  from 


WEIMAR   IN   yUNE,  -        .      221 

Weimar,  and  I  Bpcnt  a  part  of  two  days  very  delight- 
fully there.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  frank, 
genial,  and  unrestrained  than  the  spirit  which  prevailed 
at  that  summer  court,  The  view  southward  from  the 
hill  overlooks  the  valley  of  the  Ilm,  and  ranges  over 
scattered  forests  to  the  uplands  dividing  it  from  the 
Saale,  a  landscape  such  as  one  often  sees  in  the  English 
county  of  Kent,  To  the  north  over  Weimar,  the  Et- 
tersberg  rises  in  a  dark,  level  line.  Although  so  near  to 
the  city,  the  place  has  an  unexpected  air  of  privacy  and 
seclusion,  Since  the  days  of  the  Duchess  Anna  Amalia, 
It  has  boon  a  favorite  rosidonco  of  the  roigning  family. 

One  road  yet  remained  to  be  trodden,— the  old  high- 
way crossing  the  uplands  from  Weimar  to  Jena,  There 
is  now  a  roundabout  connection  by  rail  between  tho 
two  places,  scarcely  a  saving  of  time  and  certainly  no 
increase  of  comfort,  in  fine  weather;  but  the  German 
people,  like  the  Americans,  imagine  that  it  is  both. 
The  old  road,  which,  even  a  hundred  years  ago,  brought 
Weimar  and  Jena  as  near  as  the  opposite  suburbs  of  a 
great  capital,  will  soon  be  deserted  except  by  country 
carts  and  an  occasional  pilgrim  from  abroad. 

Fortunate  in  having  so  accomplished  a  scholar  as 
Mr.  Andrew  Hamilton  for  a  companion,  a  gentleman 
whose  studies  during  his  ten  years'  residence  in  Weimar ' 
made  him  the  best  possible  guide  and  commentator,  I 
Bet  out  one  bright  morning  in  an  open  post-chaise. 
After  climbing  the  hill  beyond  the  Urn,  we  passed  the 


I 

.222  JSSSJyS  AND  NOTES. 

Wsbiclit,  a  local  name  for  a  grove  lying  between  \Vei* 
mar  and  Tieffurt.  It  ia  a  natnral  wood,  with  under* 
growth  of  thi<5ket8  and  scattered  planting  of  wild-flow* 
ers,  Buch  as  we  see  everywhere  in  this  country.  I  first 
knew  it  in  its  late  autumn  garb,  with  the  accessories 
of  falling  leaves  and  wheeling  ravens,  from  the  lovely 
picture  of  Baron  von  Gleichen-Busswurm,  Schiller's 
grandson. 

As  we  turned  to  the  southeast  across  the  high,  roll- 
ing country,  Weimar  soon  dropped  behind  us  into  the 
valley  of  the  Ilm,  and  became  invisible;  the  Belvedere 
rose  a  little  above  the  horizon  line,  but  in  all  other 
directions  the  landscape  was  as  lonely  and  monotonous 
as  Central  Russia.  It  was  that  season  when  grass  is  not 
quite  ripe  for  the  scythe,  wheat  and  rye  are  just  com- 
ing into  head,  beets  and  potatoes  have  been  hoed,  and 
the  farmere  have  a  few  idle  days;  consequently  the 
broad  miles  of  cultivated  land  on  either  side  were 
almost  deserted.  Yet  it  was  a  region  where  a  poetio 
brain  would  involuntarily  begin,  or  go  on  with  its 
work, — just  enough  suggestion  in  the  open  expanse  of 
sky,  in  occasional  low,  distant  gleams  of  blue,  and  in 
the  two  or  three  dells  that  deepen  to  the  northward, 
disclosing  sheltered  meadows  and  groves. 

There  are  three  or  four  little  villages  on  or  near  the 
road.  I  remember  the  names  of  Umpferstedt  and  Hohl- 
Btedt,  and  the  brown  old  buildings  of  the  latter,  cluster- 
ing about  a  big  Lutheran  church,  as  dark  and  heavy  in 


WEIMAR  IX   yUNE.  223 

appearance  aa  the  square  bastion  of  a  fortress.  Tliere 
were  always  lilacs,  peonies,  and  snow-balls — the  unfailing 
flowers  of  the  Teutonic  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  peoples — in 
the  garden;  there  was  linen  bleaching  on  the  grass-plots 
beside  the  pool ;  there  were  two  women  to  be  seen  gos- 
siping in  the  shade,  and  possibly  two  men  behind  their 
beer  in  the  tavern;  the  toll-man  lifting  his  bar  from 
the  highway,  and  glad  of  a  chance  to  exchange  a  few 
wise  remarks  with  our  postilion;  and  lastly,  the  goose- 
girl,  with  her  bare  feet,  her  long  stick,  and  her  quack- 
ing flocks.  These  features  seem  sufficiently  picturesque, 
when  you  set  them  together  for  the  reader  of  another 
land;  yet,  divested  of  its  rich  associations,  the  road 
from  Weimar  to  Jena  is  about  as  uninteresting  as  any 
twelve  miles  in  the  world. 

The  upland  drains  to  the  northward,  and  its  highest 
crest  forms  the  rim  of  the  Saale  valley.  Thus  Napo- 
leon, by  climbing  it  from  Jena,  under  cover  of  an  aiv 
tumn  fog,  secured  at  once  the  advantage  of  position. 
The  battle  was  fought  mostly  to  the  eastward  of  the 
highway,  over  a  continuance  of  the  undulating  plain. 
Here  Rossbach  was  avenged,  even  as  Sedan  has  avenged 
Jena,  The  people  do  not  make  a  show  of  the  battle- 
ground, for  an  obvious  reason,  as  they  do  at  Leipzig 
and  Waterloo.  Yet  the  battle  here  was  a  wholesome, 
if  an  exceedingly  bitter  lesson:  here  the  feudal  spirit 
really  fell,  with  the  sword  in  its  heart,  although  it 
maintained   a  galvanio   semblance    of   life   until   1848, 


224  £s!^Ays  and  notes. 

The  higheBt  part   of   the   field,  now   overgrown   with 
pines,  is  called  the  Napoleonsberg. 

We  descend  into  the  Miihlthal  (mill  valley),  at  pres- 
ent, hy  a  new  and  admirable  piece  of  road-engineering. 
Mr,  Hamilton,  pointing  it  out  to  me,  said,  "  The  Boten- 
frau  never  went  this  way;  she  took  yonder  path,  which 
you  can  see  rising  straight  tlirough  the  woods."  Ah, 
the  Botenfrau!  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  classic  per- 
sonage. Many  of  her  sisters  still  travel,  in  shine  or 
rain,  the  mountain-roads  of  Thuringia;  nay,  have  not  I, 
myself,  entrusted  her  with  messages,  and  money  for 
purchases,  and  has  she  not  always  faithfully  rendered 
account?  The  " messenger- woman "  is  an  ancient  insti- 
tution in  the  land.  She  has  her  stated  days,  when  she 
makes  her  appearance  with  a  deep,  square  basket,  slung 
knapsack-wise  to  her  shoulders,  with  her  ever-reliable 
memory  and  her  unchallenged  honesty,  to  take  your 
commission  for  a  volume  of  poetry  or  a  leg  of  mutton, 
to  borrow  for  you  of  a  friend  or  pay  an  importunate 
enemy.  On  the  second  day,  punctually  to  the  hour, 
you  will  see  her  again, — all  your  business  promptly  at- 
tended to  for  a  very  trifling  charge,  and  a  budget  of 
gossip  thrown  in,  which  you  cannot  be  cruel  enough  to 
refuse  hearing, 

I  wonder  what  Schiller  and  Goethe  would  have 
done  without  their  messenger-woman.  She  undoubt- 
edly took  five  hours  for  the  walk  between  Jena  and 
"Weimar,  for  she  gossiped  and  had  her  beer  at  Hohl- 


WEIMAR   IN   yUNE,  225 

stedt  and  Umpferstedt ;  but  tlie  manuscript  Bceno  of 
Waliehstein  which  Schiller  sent  in  the  morning  was  in 
Goethe's  hands  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  latter  could 
frequently  return  his  criticism  by  ducal  estafctte  before 
the  author  had  gone  to  bed.  Not  only  manuscripts 
passed  between  the  two.  The  messenger-woman  very 
often  carried  Teltow  beets  to  Goethe,  and  fresh  pike  or 
perch  to  Schiller.  (I  cannot  understand  how  either 
should  be  much  of  a  delicacy;  Teltow  beets  are  dark 
roots,  like  stunted  parsnips,  with  a  flavor  half  bitter  and 
half  medicinal;  and  the  Elbe  pike  is  as  coarse  a  fish  as 
ever  tempted  an  inland  palate.)  Sometimes  the  messen- 
ger carried  birthday  presents,  sometimes  money,  often 
proof-sheets;  and  it  is  startling  to  think  what  hostilities 
of  the  Schlegels,  and  Burger,  and  Kotzebue,  may  havo 
been  stowed  away  in  the  same  basket!  If  we  had  any 
tears  to  spare,  we  would  drop  one  to  thy  memory,  good 
messenger-woman!  We  know  thou  wert  tanned  and 
leathery  of  visage,  stouter  of  leg  than  the  Graces,  and 
as  garrulous  as  any  Muse;  yet  thou  wert  the  go-be- 
tween of  the  Olympians,  a  peasant-Iris,  and  shalt  not 
wholly  lack  the  honor  thou  couldst  not  comprehend! 

Descending  into  the  Miihlthal,  we  soon  emerged 
into  the  broad,  warm,  luxuriant  valley  of  the  Saale. 
Here  the  bluffs  and  forelands  of  the  upper  region  have 
almost  the  dignity  of  mountains,  as  they  stand  apart  to 
leave  ample  space  for  the  town  and  its  garden  suburbs, 
and  the  spacious  river-meads.     Here,  below,  there  was 


226  £ssy^s  AND  NOTES. 

no  broosoy  and  tlio  Jnno  lun  had  iU  volnptuons  will; 
ovory  tnatiBion  and  cottago  was  ola^pod  in  a  ring  of 
blossoming  roBo-trooB>  And  euch  rosea!  richly-fod  and 
tondorly-tcnded  reinantanteSf  opening  great  circles  of 
white,  pink,  crimson,  maroon,  or  salmon-colored  petals, 
such  as  Persia  or  Cashmere  never  dreamed  of*  The 
rose,  indeed,  is  but  a  gypsy  in  the  Orient!  hero  she  is 
princess  of  an  ancient  lino,  and  the  commonest  gardener 
loves  her  better  than  Hafiz  did.  How  could  one  echo, 
looking  on  this  peerless  perfection  of  bloom,  and  inhal* 
ing  tlio  breath  that  turns  sense  into  soul,  the  mournful 
afterthought  uf  Oinar  KhayytVui? 

•*Ycs,  but  where  leaves  the  rose  of  yesterday  !♦* 

As  wo  drove  into  the  city,  my  friend  pointed  out 
tho  old  Frommann  house,  whore  Alwino^s  childhood  was 
passed.  There  is  still  a  little  garden  attached  to  it,  and 
also  a  garden-house,  but  tho  latter  is  surely  too  new  to 
have  been  Goethe's  residence  from  sixty  to  seventy 
years  ago.  We  stopped  at  "The  Black  Bear,"  the  same 
hotel  wherein  Luther  spent  one  night,  wearing  a 
trooper's  armor  and  calling  himself  "Squire  George,** 
on  his  secret  journey  from  the  VVartburg  to  Witten- 
berg. There  was  quite  a  crowd  in  the  little  university 
town,  by  reason  of  Bach's  "Passion'*  being  given  in 
the  church;  and  thus  the  Frommann  family  was  not 
at  home  when  we  first  called  there. 

Through   Mr.  Hamilton's   kind   offices,   however^  1 


IVEIMAR   IN    JUNE,  227 

made  tlie  acquaintance  of  a  lady  who  was-  familiar 
with  the  court  of  Duke  Karl  August,  and  had  known 
Goethe  in  the  still  fresh  and  vigorous  beginning  of  his 
age.  As  a  young  girl,  she  was  one  of  the  principal 
performers  in  a  masque  which  he  wrote,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  Empress  of  Russia's  visit  to  "Weimar;  and 
her  account  of  the  kindly  patience  with  which  he 
drilled  her  and  other  maidens  in  their  tasks  was  very 
vivid  and  delightful.  They  all  went  to  his  house  to 
rehearse,  and  in  such  a  state  of  fright  that  the  most  of 
them  were  on  the  point  of  running  away.  The  impos- 
ing presence  of  the  poet,  his  deep,  powerful  voice,  and 
the  supreme  place  in  German  literature  which  waa 
then,  at  least,  universally  conceded  to  him,  affected 
both  the  sense  and  the  imagination.  But  the  lady  who 
told  the  story  concealed  her  trepidation  and  stood  her 
ground.  Goethe,  she  soon  saw,  was  pleased  with  her 
apparent  self-possession,  even  as  he  seemed  to  be  an- 
noyed by  the  shyness  of  her  companions.  He  praised 
while  he  corrected  her  delivery  of  his  verses,  declaimed 
them  for  her,  and  instructed  her  so  gently,  yet  so 
wisely,  that  her  performance  was  a  famous  success. 
She  represented  a  Genius,  with  wings,  gauze,  and  span- 
gles; her  part  was  to  address  the  empress,  face  to  face. 
"I  felt  Goethe's  eye  on  me,"  she  said  to  us;  "and  I 
thought  only  of  him,  while  I  spoke.  I  forgot  all  about 
the  empress,  and  everybody  was  astonished  at  the  cool- 
ness with  which  I  looked  at  her." 


228  JSSSA  yS  AND  NOTES. 

I 

There  is  no  great  Bignificance  in  thiB  anecdote,  by 
itself.  But  it  is  one  of  hundreds  which  I  heard,  and 
which  produce  the  same  impression  of  a  grand,  noble, 
and  simply  humane  personality.  I  cannot  go  further, 
now,  into  any  presentation  of  Goethe  as  a  character,  for 
this  is  a  part  of  the  larger  task  which  led  me  to  "Wei- 
mar; yet  I  cannot  help  now  and  then  dropping  such 
illustrative  details,  as  entered  into  my  experience  in 
making  acquaintance  with  those  who  knew  the  poet 
and  the  circumstances  and  associations  of  his  life. 
From  a  long  study  of  his  works  and  the  special  litera- 
ture they  have  called  forth,  I  went  to  the  place-^aa 
was,  in  fact,  inevitable — with  a  tolerably  complete  men- 
tal outline  of  the  man;  and  it  was  my  greatest  cheer 
and  satisfaction,  when  I  left  Weimar  to  return  home, 
to  find  that  I  waa  only  obliged  to  add  the  necessary 
light  and  shade,  with  scarcely  the  need  of  a  variation' 
in  the  drawing. 

After  dinner,  Bach's  "Passion'*  being  ended,  we 
found  Friedrich  Frommann,  and  were  received  like  old 
friends.  The  quaint  old  house,  with  its  long  and  wind- 
ing passages  leading  to  chambers  looking  upon  little  ver- 
durous courts,  where  there  was  no  sound  of  the  streets, 
quite  fascinated  me.  The  dark  wooden  floors,  the  simple 
yet  comfortable  furniture,  the  few^  choice  pictures  and 
busts,  the  absence  of  mere  show,  of  every  sign  of  strug- 
gle and  emulation,  and  the  not-to-be-described  atmosphere 
of  art  and  taste  and  thought  which  they  who  know  never 


WEIMAR  IN  JUNE.  229 

fail  to  detect  with  their  first  eniff  of  the  air, — all  these 
were  blissfully  welcome.  Herr  Frommann  and  his  daugh- 
ter  bestowed  upon  us  the  hospitality  of  the  house  in  full 
unreserve.  His  sister,  Alwine,  had  given  me  no  letter 
of  introduction;  she  simply  said,  "My  brother  will  ex- 
pect to  see  you,  when  you  go  to  Jena,"  and  the  intro- 
duction was  thereby  already  made. 

We  drove  back  to  Weimar  towards  sunset,  when 
every  long  swell  of  the  upland,  or  crest  of  a  distant 
wood  was  outlined  by  a  keen,  golden  edge  of  light. 
The  valley  of  the  Ilm  opens  suddenly,  like  that  of  the 
Saale,  only  half  as  deep  and  broad,  but  made  very  pic- 
turesque by  the  old  mill  and  bridge,  the  high-towered 
castle  and  the  park.  The  old  paths  of  the  poets,  visi- 
ble through  the  gaps  in  the  heavy  foliage,  were 
doubly  cool  and  secluded  in  the  evening  shadow. 
Families  sat  at  tables  in  their  gardens  and  took  their 
tea  in  the  open  air.  Beyond,  on  the  avenue  stretch- 
ing away  to  Belvedere,  gleams  of  fresh  color  moved 
to  and  fro;  and  we  met  no  face  which  had  not  cast 
away  its  anxious  look  of  labor,  in  a  glad  surrender 
to  the  influences  of  the  hour.  The  scene  recalled 
Goethe's  line: 

**Here  ii  the  people^s  propor  heaven.** 

Another  day  of  farewells,  and  I  left  Weimar,    There 
is  no  Fountain  of  Trevi  there,  the  drinking  of  whose 


230 


£SSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 


N. 


<watetB  would  inBure  me  a  retum;  but  I  migKt  have 
taken  a  parting  cup  at  the  fountain  which  is  guarded 
by  the  lovely  bronze  group  of  Death  and  Immortality* 
Perhaps  the  acceptance  of  an  earnest  task  is  a  better 
guarantee  than  either^  for  it  seems  to  give  a  presump- 
tive right  to  the  years  required  to  perform  it 


jASfUABT,  1877. 


NOTES 


OB 


BOOKS  AND  EVENTS 


FITZ-GKEENE  HALLECK, 


DEDICATION    OP    THE     HALLECK     MONOIENT,    AT     OUILrOBD, 

CONN.,  JULY  8th,   1869. 


W"E  have  been  eighty  years  an  organized  nation, 
ninety-three  years  an  independent  people,  more 
than  two  hundred  years  an  American  race,  and  to-day, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  history,  we  meet  to  dedicate 
publicly,  with  appropriate  honors,  a  monument  to  an 
American  poet.  The  occasion  is  thus  lifted  above  the 
circle  of  personal  memories  which  inspired  it,  and 
takes  its  place,  as  the  beginning  of  a  new  epoch  in 
the  story  of  our  culture.  It  carries  our  thoughts  back 
of  the  commencement  of  this  individual  life,  into  the 
elements  from  which  our  literature  grew,  and  forward, 
far  beyond  the  closing  of  the  tomb  before  us,  into  the 
possible  growth  and  glory  of  the  future. 

The  rhythmical  expression  of  emotion,  or  passion, 
or  thought,  is  a  need  of  the  human  race — coeval  with 
speech,  universal  aa  religion,  the  prophetic  forerunner 
as  well  as  the  last-begotten  ofiEspring  of  civilization. 
Poetry  belongs  equally  to  the  impressible  childhood  of 


234  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

a  people  and  to  the  i:efined  ease  of  their  mataritj.  It 
is  both  the  inBtinctive  effort  of  nature,  and  the  loftiest 
ideal  of  Art,  receding  to  farther  and  farther  spheres  of 
spiritual  Beanty,  as  men  rise  to  the  capacity  for  its  en- 
joyment. But  our  race  was  transferred,  half-grown, 
from  the  songs  of  its  early  ages  and  the  inspiring  as- 
sociations of  its  Past,  and  set  here,  face  to  face  with 
stem  tasks,  which  left  no  space  for  the  lighter  play  of 
the  mind.  The  early  generations  of  English  bards  grad- 
ually become  foreign  to  us;  for  their  songs,  however 
sweet,  wore  not  those  of  our  homo.  Wo  profess  to 
claim  ati  equal  sharo  in  Cliauci^r,  and  BpouNur,  and 
Shalcespcare,  but  it  is  a  hollow  pretence.  They  belong 
to  our  language,  but  we  cannot  truly  feel  that  they 
belong  to  us  as  a  people.  The  destiny  that  placed  us 
on  til  is  soil  robbed  us  of  the  magic  of  tradition,  the 
wealth  of  romance,  the  suggestions  of  history,  the  senti- 
ment of  inherited  homes  and  customs,  and  left  us,  shorn 
of  our  lisping  childhood,  to  create  a  poetic  literature 
for  ourselves. 

It  is  not  singular,  therefore,  that  this  continent 
should  have  waited  long  for  its  first-born  p<,ot.  The 
intellect,  the  energy  of  character,  the  moral  force— oven 
the  occasional  taste  and  refinement — which  were  shipped 
hither  from  the  older  shores,  found  the  hard  work  of 
history  already  portioned  out  for  them,  and  the  Muses 
discovered  no  nook  of  guarded  leisure,  no  haunt  of 
sweet  contemplation,  which  might  tempt  them  to  settle 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK.  235 

among  us.  Labor  may  be  Prayer,  but  it  is  not  Poetry. 
Liberty  of  Conscience  and  Worship,  practical  Democ- 
racy, the  union  of  Civil  Order  and  Personal  Independ- 
ence, are  ideas  which  may  warm  the  hearts  and  brains 
of  men,  but  the  soil  in  which  they  strike  root  is  too 
full  of  fresh,  unsoftened  forces  to  produce  the  delicate 
wine  of  Song.  The  highest  product  of  ripened  intellect 
cannot  be  expected  in  the  nonage  of  a  nation.  The 
poetry  of  our  Colonial  and  Kevolutionary  periods  is 
mostly  a  spiritless  imitation  of  inferior  models  in  tho 
parent  country.  If,  hero  and  there,  some  timid,  uncer- 
tain voice  seems  to  guess  the  true  language,  wo  only 
hear  it  once  or  twice — like  those  colonized  nightingales 
which  for  one  brief  summer  gave  their  new  song  to  tho 
Virginian  moonlights,  and  then  disappeared.  These 
early  fragments  of  our  poetry  are  chanted  in  the  midst 
of  such  profound  silence  and  loneliness  that  they  sound 
spectrally  to  our  ears.  Philip  Freneau  is  almost  as 
much  a  shade  to  us  as  are  his  own  hunter  and  deer. 

In  the  same  year  in  which  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  was  completed  and  adopted,  the  first  poet 
was  bom — Eichard  Henry  Dana.  Less  than  three  years 
after  him  Fitz-Greene  Halleck  came  into  the  world — 
the  lyrical  genius  following  the  grave  and  contemplative 
muse  of  his  elder  brother.  In  Halleck,  therefore,  we 
mourn  our  first  loss  out  of  the  first  generation  of  Ameri- 
can bards ;  and  a  deeper  significance  is  thus  given  to  the 
personal  honors  which  we  lovingly  pay  to  his  memoiy. 


986  SSSAVS  AND  J^OTES. 

Let  ns  be  glad,  not  only  that  these  honors  have  been  so 
nobly  deserved,  but  also  that  we  find  in  him  a  fitting 
representative  of  his  age  I  Let  ns  forget  our  sorrow 
for  the  true  man,  the  steadfast  friend,  and  rejoice  that 
the  earliest  child  of  song  whom  we  return  to  the  soil 
that  bore  him  for  us,  was  the  brave,  bright,  and  beau- 
tiful growth  of  a  healthy,  masculine  racel  No  morbid 
impatience  with  the  restrictions  of  life — no  fruitless  la- 
ment over  an  unattainable  ideal — no  inherited  gloom  of 
temperament,  such  as  finds  delight  in  what  it  chooses  to 
call  despair,  ever  muffled  the  clear  notes  of  his  verse, 
or  touched  the  sunny  cheerfulness  of  his  history.  The 
cries  and  protests,  the  utterances  of  "world-pain,*'  with 
which  so  many  of  his  contemporaries  in  Europe  filled 
the  world,  awoke  no  echo  in  his  sound  and  sturdy  na- 
ture. His  life  offers  no  enigmas  for  our  solution.  No 
romantic  mystery  fioats  around  his  name,  to  win  for 
him  the  interest  of  a  shallow  sentimentalism.  Clear, 
frank,  simple  and  consistent,  his  song  and  his  life  were 
woven  into  one  smooth  and  even  thread.  "We  would 
willingly  pardon  in  him  some  expression  of  dissatisfac- 
tion with  a  worldly  fate  which,  in  certain  respects, 
seemed  inadequate  to  his  genius,  but  we  find  that  he 
never  uttered  it.  The  basis  of  his  nature  was  a 
knightly  bravery,  of  such  firm  and  enduring  temper 
that  it  kept  from  him  even  the  ordinary  sensitiveness 
of  the  poetic  character.  From  the  time  of  his  studies 
as  a  boy,  in  the  propitious  kitchen  which  heard  his  first 


FITZ.GREENE   HALLECK.  237 

callow  nnmbere,  to  the  last  days  of  a  life  which,  had 
seen  no  liberal  popular  recognition  of  his  deserts,  he  ac- 
cepted  his  fortune  with  the  perfect  dignity  of  a  man 
who  cannot  stoop  to  discontent.  During  his  later  visits 
to  New  York,  the  simplest,  the  most  unobtrusive,  yet 
the  cheerfullest  man  to  be  seen  among  the  throngs  of 
Broadway,  was  Fitz-Green  Halleck,  Yet,  with  all  his 
simplicity,  his  bearing  was  strikingly  gallant  and  fear- 
less; the  carriage  of  his  head  suggested  the  wearing  of 
a  helmet.  The  genial  frankness  and  grace  of  his  man- 
ner, in  his  intercourse  with  men,  has  suggested  to 
others  the  epithet  "courtly" — but  I  prefer  to  call  it  ' 
mantyy  as  the  expression  of  a  rarer  and  finer  quality  * 
than  is  usually  found  in  the  atmosphere  of  courts. 

Halleck  was  loyal  to  himself,  as  a  man,  and  he  was 
also  loyal  to  his  art,  as  a  poet.  His  genius  was  essen- 
tially lyrical,  and  he  seems  to  have  felt,  instinctively, 
its  natural  limitations.  He  quietly  and  gratefully  ac- 
cepted the  fame  which  followed  his  best  productions, 
but  he  never  courted  public  applause.  Even  the  swift 
popularity  of  the  Croaker  series  could  not  seduce  him 
to  take  advantage  of  the  tide,  which  then  promised  a 
speedy  flood.  At  periods  in  his  history,  when  anything 
from  his  pen  would  have  been  welcomed  by  a  class  of  . 
readers,  whose  growing  taste  found  bo  little  sustenance 
at  home,  he  remained  silent  because  he  felt  no  imme* 
diate  personal  necessity  of  poetic  utterance.  The  Odr- 
man  poet,  Uhland,   said  to  me:.  "I  cannot   now   saj 


288  ESSAYS  AUD  /fOTES. 

whether  I  shall  write  any  more,  because  I  only  write 
when  I  feel  the  positive  needy  and  this  is  independent 
of  my  will,  or  the  wish  of  others."  Such  was  also  the 
law  of  Halleck's  mind,  and  of  the  mind  of  every  poet 
who  reveres  his  divine  gift.  God  cannot  accept  a  me- 
chanical prayer;  and  I  do  not  compare  sacred  things 
with  profane,  when  I  say  that  a  poem  cannot  be  ac- 
cepted which  does  not  compel  its  own  inspired  utter- 
ance. He  is  the  true  priest  of  the  human  heart  and 
the  human  soul,  who  rhythmically  expresses  the  emo* 
tions  and  the  aspirations  of  his  own. 

It  has  been  said  of  Ilalleck  as  of  Campbell,  that  "he 
was  afraid  of  the  shadow  which  his  own  fame  cast  be- 
fore him/*     I  protest  against  the  use  of  a  clover  epi- 
grammatic sentence  to  misinterpret  the  poetic  nature  to 
men,    The  infuronco  is,  that  poets  write  merely  for  that 
popular  recognition  which  is  called  fame;  and,  having 
attained  a  certain  degree,  fear  to  lose  it  by  later  produc- 
tions, which  may  not  prove  so  acceptable.    A  writer,  in- 
fluenced by  such  a  consideration,    never  deserved   the 
name  of  poet.    It  is  an  unworthy  estimate  of  his  char- 
acter which  thus  explains  the  honest  and  honorable  si- 
lence of  ritK-Orcone  llallccki     The  quality  of  genius 
is  not  to  be  measured  by  its  productive  activity.    The 
brain  which  gave  us  "Alnwick  Castle,'*  "Marco  Bozza- 
ris,"  "Bums,'*  and  "Red  Jacket,"  was  not  exhausted! 
it  was  certainly  capable  of  other  and  equally  admirable 
aehiovoments ;  but  the  fortunate  visits  of  the  Muno  aro 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK.  239 

not  to  be  compelled  by  the  poet's  will,  and  Halleck 
endured  her  absence  without  complaint,  as  he  had  en- 
joyed her  favors  without  ostentation.  The  very  fact 
that  he  wrote  so  little  proclaims  the  sincerity  of  his 
genius,  and  harmonizes  with  the  entire  character  of  his 
life.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  he  first  let  loose  the 
Theban  eagle  in  our  songless  American  air.  He  was 
glad  and  satisfied  to  know  that  his  lyrics  have  entered 
into  and  become  a  part  of  the  national  life — ^that 

"  Sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
And  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue,** 

when  his  lines,  keen  and  flexible  as  fire,  bum  in  the- 
ears  of  the  young  who  shall  hereafter  sing,  and  fight, 
and  labor,  and  love,  for  "  God  and  their  native  land ! " 
It  is  not  necessary  that  we  should  attempt  to  deter^ 
mine  his  relative  place  among  American  poets.  It  is 
sufficient  that  he  has  his  assured  place,  and  that  his 
name  is  a  permanent  part  of  our  literary  history.  It 
is  sufficient  that  he  deserves  every  honor  which  we  can 
render  to  his  memory,  not  only  as  one  of  the  very  first 
representatives  of  American  Song,  but  from  his  intrin- 
sio  quality  as  a  poet.  Let  us  rather  be  thankful  for 
every  star  set  in  our  heaven,  than  seek  to  ascertain  how 
they  differ  from  one  another  in  glory.  If  any  critic 
would  diminish  the  loving  enthusiasm  of  those  whose 
lives  have  been  brightened  by  the  poet's  personal  sun- 
thine,  let  him  remember  that  the  sternest  criticism  wUl 


240  M^SSAYS  ASD   NOTE^, 

Bet  tlie  lyrics  of  Halleck  higher  than  their  author^s  nn« 
ambitiooB  estimate.  They  will,  in  time,  fix  their  own 
just  place  in  our  poetic  annals.  Halleck  is  still  too 
near  our  orbit  for  the  computation  of  an  exact  parallax ; 
but  we  may  safely  leave  his  measure  of  fame  to  the 
decision  of  impartial  Timci  A  poem  which  bears 
within  itself  its  own  right  to  existence,  will  not  die. 
Its  rhythm  is  freshly  fed  from  the  eternal  pulses  of 
beauty,  whence  flows  the  sweetest  life  of  the  human 
race.  Age  cannot  quench  its  original  fire,  or  repetition 
make  dall  its  immortal  music.  It  forever  haunts  that 
purer  atmosphere  which  overlies  the  dust  and  smoke  of 
our  petty  cares  and  our  material  interests — often,  in- 
deed, calling  to  us  like  a  distant  clarion,  to  keep  awake 
the  senses  of  intellectual  delight  which  would  else  per* 
ish  from  our  lives.  The  poetic  literature  of  a  land  is 
the  finer  and  purer  ether  above  its  material  growth  and 
the  vicissitudes  of  its  history.  Where  it  was  vacant 
and  barren  for  us,  except,  perchance,  a  feeble  lark-note 
here  and  there,  Dana,  Halleck  and  Bryant  rose  together 
on  steadier  wings,  and  gave  voices  to  the  solitude- 
Dana  with  a  broad,  grave  undertone,  like  that  of  the 
sea;  Bryant  with  a  sound  as  of  the  wind  in  summer 
woods,  and  the  fall  of  waters  in  mountain-dells;  and 
Halleck  with  strains  blown  from  a  silver  trumpet, 
breathing  manly  fire  and  courage.  Many  voices  have 
followed  them;  the  ether  rings  with  new  melodies,  and 
yet  others  shall  come  to  lure  all  the  aspirations  of  our 


FITZGREENE   HALLECfC,  241 

hearts,  and  echo  all  the  yearnings  of  our  separated  des- 
tiny; but  we  shall  not  forget  the  forerunners  who  rose 
in  advance  of  their  welcome,  and  created  their  own  au- 
dience by  their  songs. 

Thus  it  is,  that  in  dedicating  a  monument  to  Fitz- 
Greene    Ilalleck    to-day,  we  symbolize    the  intellectual 
growth   of  the    American    people.    They   have  at  last 
taken  that  departure  which  represents  the  higher  devel- 
opment of  a  nation — the  capacity  to  value  the  genius 
which  cannot  work  with  material  instruments ;  which  is 
unmoved  by  Atlantic  Cables,  Pacific  Railroads,  and  any 
show  of  marvellous  statistical  tables;  which  grandly  dis- 
penses   with   the   popular   measures  of  success;  which 
simply  expresses  itself,  without  consciously  working  for 
the    delight    of   others — ^yet    which,    once    recognized, 
stands  thenceforth  as  a  part  of  the  glory  of  the  whole 
people.    It  is  a  token  that  we  have  relaxed  the  rough 
work  of  two  and  a  half  centuries,  and  are  beginning  to 
enjoy  that  rest  and  leisure,  out  of  which  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  civilization  grow.    The  pillars  of  our  politi- 
cal fabric  have  been  slowly  and  massively  raised,  like 
the  drums  of  Doric  columns,    but  they  still    need   the 
crowning  capitals  and  the  sculptured  entablature.    Law, 
and  Right,  and  Physical  Development  build  well,  but 
they  are  cold,  mathematical  architects :  the  Poet  and  the 
Artist  make  beautiful  the  temple.    Our  natural  tendency, 
as  a  people,  is  to  worship  positive  material  achievement 
in  whatever  form  it  is  displayed;  even  the  poet  must 


243  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

be  a  partizan  before  tbe  government  will  recognize  bii 
existence.  So  much  of  our  intellectual  energy  has  been 
led  into,  the  new  paths  which  our  national  growth  has 
opened--so  exacting  are  the  demands  upon  working 
brains — that  taste  and  refinement  of  mind,  and  warm 
appreciation  of  the  creative  spirit  of  Beauty,  are  only 
beginning  to  bloom  here  and  there  among  us,  like  ten- 
der exotic  flowers.  "The  light  that  never  waa  on  sea 
or  land"  shines  all  around  us,  but  few  are  the  eyes 
whose  vision  it  clarifies.  Yet  the  faculty  is  here,  and 
the  earnest  need.  The  delight  in  Art,  of  which  Poe- 
try is  the  highest  manifestation,  has  ceased  to  be  the 
privilege  of  a  fortunate  few,  and  will  soon  become,  let 
us  hope,  the  common  heritage  of  the  people.  If  any 
true  song  has  heretofore  been  sung  to  unheeding  ears, 
let  UB  behold,  in  this  dedication,  the  sign  that  our 
reproach  is  taken  away — that,  henceforth,  every  new 
melody  of  the  land  shall  spread  in  still  expanding  vi- 
brations, until  all  shall  learn  to  listen! 

The  life  of  the  Poet  who  sleeps  here  represents  the 
long  period  of  transition  between  the  appearance  of 
American  poetry  and  the  creation  of  an  appreciative 
and  sympathetic  audience  for  it.  We  must  honor  him 
all  the  more  that  in  the  beginning  he  was  content  with 
the  few  who  heard  him ;  that  the  agitations  of  national 
life  through  which  he  passed  could  not  ruffle  the  clear 
flow  of  his  song;  and  that,  with  a  serene  equanimity 
of   temper,   which    is    the    rarest  American   virtue,  he 


FITZ'GREENE   HALLECK.  2-^3 

enw,  .during  liis  wliolo  lifo,  wealth  and  personal  dibtinc- 
tibn  constantly  passing  into  less  deserving  hands,  with- 
out temptation  and  without  envy.  All  popular  super- 
stitions  concerning  the  misanthropy  or  the  irritable  tem- 
per of  Genius  were  disproved  in  him:  I  have  never 
known  a  man  so  independent  of  the  moods  and  pas- 
sions of  his  generation.  "We  cannot  regret  that  he 
should  have  been  chosen  to  assist  in  the  hard  pioneer 
work  of  our  literature,  because  he  seemed  to  be  so  un- 
conscious of  its  privations.  Yet  he  and  his  co-mates 
have  walked  a  rough,  and  for  the  most  part  a  lonely 
track,  leaving  a  smoother  way  broken  for  their  follow- 
ers. They  have  blazed  their  trails  through  the  wilder- 
ness, and  carved  their  sounding  names  on  the  silent 
mountain-peaks,  teaching  the  scenery  of  our  homes  a 
language,  and  giving  it  a  rarer  and  tenderer  charm 
than  even  the  atmosphere  of  great  historic  deeds,  Fitz- 
Grcene  Halleck  has  set  his  seal  upon  the  gray  rock  of 
Connecticut,  on  the  heights  of  Weehawken,  on  the  fair 
valley  of  "Wyoming,  and  the  Field  of  the  Grounded 
Arms.  He  has  done  his  manly  share  in  forcing  this 
half-subdued  Nature  in  which  we  live,  to  accept  a  hu- 
man harmony,  and  cover  its  soulless  beauty  with  the 
mantle  of  his  verse. 

However  our  field  of  poetic  literature  may  bloom, 
whatever  products  of  riper  culture  may  rise  to  over- 
shadow  its  present  growths,  the  memory  of  Halleck  is 
perennially  rooted  at  its  entrance.    Becognizing  the  pur- 


244  JS(SSA  ys  AND  NOTES. 

itjr  of  his  genius,  the  nobility  of  hia  character,  wo 
gratefully  and  affectionately  dedicate  to  him  this  mon- 
ument. There  is  no  cypress  in  the  wreath  which  we 
lay  upon  his  grave.  We  do  not  meet  to  chant  a  dirge 
over  unfulfilled  promises  or  an  insufficient  destiny.  "We 
have  no  wilful  defiance  of  the  world  to  excuse,  no  sen- 
sitive protest  to  justify.  Our  hymn  of  consecration  is 
cheerful,  though  solemn.  Looking  forward  from  this 
hallowed  ground,  we  can  only  behold  a  future  for  our 
Poetry,  sunnier  than  its  past.  We  see  the  love  of 
Beauty  bom  from  the  servitude  to  Use — the  recognition 
of  an  immortal  ideal  element  gradually  evolved  from 
the  strength  of  natures  which  have  conquered  material 
forces — the  growth  of  all  fine  and  gracious  attributes  of 
imagination  and  fancy,  to  warm,  and  sweeten,  and  ex- 
pand the  stately  coldness  of  intellect.  We  dream  of 
days  when  the  highest  and  deepest  utterances  of  rhyth- 
mical thought  shall  be  met  with  grateful  welcome,  not 
with  dull  amazement  or  mean  suspicion.  We  wait  for 
voices  which  shall  no  more  say  to  the  Poet:  "Stay 
here,  at  the  level  of  our  delight  in  you!** — but  which 
shall  say  to  him :  "  Higher,  still  higher !  though  we  may 
not  reaph  you,  yet  in  following  we  shall  rise!"  And, 
as  our  last  prophetic  hope,  we  look  for  that  fortunate 
age,  when  the  circle  of  sympathy,  now  so  limited, 
shall  be  co-extensive  with  the  nation,  and  when,  even 
as  the  Poet  loves  his  Land|  his  Land  shall  love  her 
Poet! 


FITZ'GREENE   HALLECK,  245 

n. 

The  Halleok  Status  in  Central  Paes. 
18T7, 

On  the  15th  of  May  the  first  monumental  statue  of 
an  American  author  was  unveiled  in  the  Central  Park 
of  New  York,  It  is  not  a  fortunate  specimen  of  our 
native  art.  But  the  question  of  the  artistic  value  of 
the  work  is  subordinate  to  that  of  its  place  as  a  land- 
mark in  the  history  of  our  literature.  Washington  Irv- 
ing, bom  in  the  first  year  of  the  nation's  independence, 
and  first  to  represent  the  American  people  in  letters 
throughout  the  world,  still  waits  for  commemoration 
in  bronze  or  marble.  Cooper,  Poe  and  Ilawthome, 
who,  after  him,  have  received  wider  fame  and  exer- 
cised a  more  distinct  literary  influence  than  any  others 
of  our  departed  authors,  wear  no  honors  save  thoso  bo- 
stowed  upon  their  graves.  Why  should  the  first  dis- 
tinction fall  upon  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  an  author  whose 
period  of  activity  was  so  brief,  whose  good  works  are 
so  few,  and  whose  name  has  scarcely  passed  beyond  his 
country's  borders? 

To  answer  this  question  fairly  and  satisfactorily,  we 
are  obliged  to  consider  the  poet's  character  and  person- 
ality, and  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  his  literary  life. 
The  latter  have  faded  from  the  memoxy  of  the  gen- 


1  I 

246  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

end  public ;  for  every  great  political  conynlaion  immed- 
iately throws  the  Fast  into  Bndden  remoteness  and  in- 
distinctness, .by  interposing  a  deep  chasm  between  it 
and  the  Present. '  It  is  quite  time  that  a  history  of 
American  literatore  should  be  written.  The  men  who 
remember,  clearly  and  intelligently,  all  the  phenomena 
of  our  intellectual  growth  previous  to  the  year  1830 
are  becoming  few;  and  to  them,  rather  than  to  old 
newspaper-files,  must  we  turn  for  the  best  knowledge 
of  those  early  days.  Halleck*s  importance  is  at  once 
perceived,  if  we  project  him  against  the  background  of 
his  time.  His  position  is  almost  that  of  the  German 
poet,  Grellert, — the  first  to  sing  a  natural  note,  in  a 
waste  of  dulness  and  imitation,  and  growing  silent  as 
ho  lived  to  be  the  contemporary  of  far  greater  men. 
Each  of  his  lyrics  came  forth  like  a  burst  of  light,  be- 
cause the  poetic  atmosphere  was  one  of  level  gloom. 
He  was  the  American  twin-brother  of  Campbell,  to 
whom,  as  a  poet,  he  always  felt  nearest,  yet  whom  he 
never  imitated.  He  was  cast  in  an  independent  mould; 
and  it  is  not  likely  that,  under  other  circumstances  or 
with  greater  incentives  to  labor,  his  literary  record 
would  have  been  different  in  character. 

The  vein  of  poetic  genius  in  Halleck's  nature  was 
wholly  genuine,  yet  it  was  exceptionally  quiet  and  im* 
demonstrative.  Its  activity  was  less  inherent  in  its  sub- 
stance than  dependent  on  some  external  stimulus.  For 
one  who  wrote  so  much  and  so  fairly  as  a  boy,  his  first 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK,  24^ 

flush  .of  manhood  and  contact  with  life  are  surpris- 
ingly barren  of  verse.  His  friendship  with  Joseph  Rod- 
man Drake,  which  began  about  the  close  of  the  year 
1813,  and  continued  until  the  latter's  death  in  1820, 
was  the  spell  which  awoke  his  true  powers,  and  gave 
him  a  swift  and  delightful  fame,  Drake  was  born  a 
singer, — almost  an  imjprovisaiore^  —  whose  imaginative 
faculty,  although  of  rather  flimsy  texture,  was  always 
rapid,  joyous  and  infectious.  He  wrote  in  the  ardor 
of  his  first  conceptions,  and  seems  to  have  rarely  re- 
touched or  elaborated  his  work.  Halleck,  who,  I  sus- 
pect, composed  more  slowly,  resembled  Drake  in  the 
unstudied  ease,  grace  and  sweetness  of  his  lines.  Be- 
fore "  The  Croakers "  and  "  Fanny,"  there  was  no 
American  verse  that  was  not  either  pompously  solemn 
or  coarsely  farcical :  hence  this  new  fountain,  wilfully 
casting  forth  its  pure,  sparkling,  capricious  jets  of  song, 
was  welcomer  to  the  public  than  poetry  can  ever  be 
again.  If  to  readers  of  this  day  the  sentiment  may 
now  and  then  appear  conventional,  or  the  humor  dull. 
or  the  political  allusions  obscure,  it  must  be  reiaem- 
bered  that  Halleck  was  first  read  by  a  generation  which 
had  never  before  been  refreshed  by  sentiment  and  hu- 
mor and  cleverness  of  allusion.  The  light  abandon  of 
his  stanzas  was  as  new  as  their  racy  local  flavor.  The 
mock  American  Muse  seemed  suddenly  to  have  come 
down  from  her  clattering  cothurniy  thrown  away  her 
grim  Minerva-mask,   and  shown  herself  in  young  and 


248  J^SSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

breathing  beauty^  with  the  elastio  step  of  a  mountain- 
maiden. 

After  Drake^s  death,  HallecVs  trip  to  Europe  and 
his  ardent  Philhellenic  sympathies  prolonged  his  poetic 
activity  for  a  time;  but  the  ten  years,  from  1817  to 
1827,  begin  and  complete  his  season  of  productiveness. 

*  Nothing  that  he  wrote  before  or  after  that  period  pos- 
sesses any  vitality;  and  it  is  probable,  in  fact,  that  he 
will  only  be  known  to  later  generations  by  six  poems, 
which  I  venture  to  name  in  the  order  of  their  excel- 
lence: "Marco  Bozzaris,"  "Bums,"  "Red  Jacket," 
"Abiwick  Castle,"  "The  Field  of  the  Grounded 
Arms,"  and  "On  the  Death  of  Drake."    His  "Fanny" 

^  may  still  be  read  with  interest,  but  its  original  charm 
faded  away  with  the  surprise  of  its  first  appearance; 
some  of  the  other  brief  lyrics  and  songs  are  unaffected, 
graceful,  and  cither  tender  or  mocking;  and  in  a  frag- 
ment of  his  poem  on  Connecticut  we  find  these  lines, 
which,  although  less  sinewy  and  imaginative,  are  of  the 
same  quality  as  some  passages  in  Lowell's  noble  patri- 
otic Odes;— 

■*Thy  gallant  men  stepped  steady  and  serene 
To  that  war-music^s  stem  and  strong  delight, 
Where  bayonets  clenched  above  the  trampled  green, 
Where  sabres  grappled  in  the  ocean  fight; 
In  siege,  in  storm,  on  deck  or  rampart,  there 
They  hunted  the  wolf  Danger  to  his  lair, 
And  sought  and  won  sweet  Peace,  and  wreaths  for 
Honor's  hair!" 


•    FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK,  249 

Six  lyrics  seem  to  be  a  slender  basis  for  a  poetic  fame ; 
but  has  Collins  more? — has  even  Gray  more?  And 
these  six  of  Halleck  are  indisputably  his  own.  We 
may  find  in  them  the  measure  of  Scott,  something  of 
the  diction  of  Campbell,  or  the  free  metrical  cadences 
of  B)Ton,  yet  each  of  these  features  is  colored  by  a  dis- 
tinct individuality,  and  all  are  fused  into  a  poetic  sub- 
stance which  asserts  its  native  quality.  Since  Halleck 
never  gave  his  life  to  ^  the  service  of  poetry, — never 
made  an  artistic  ideal  of  that  which  came  to  him  as  an 
unsought  delight, — we  may  with  all  the  more  justice 
accept  his  highest  perfonnance  as  the  true  measure  of 
his  genius.  He  lived  at  a  time,  and  in  a  community, 
which  did  not  guess  the  necessity  of  educating  the 
finer  intellectual  gifts,  of  training  the  wings  which 
would  essay  loftier  flights,  Perhaps  the  recognition  of 
this  necessity,  coming  upon  him  too  late,  may  account 
for  the  silence  of  his  later  years.  His  mind,  although 
limited  in  its  range  of  interests,  was  both  sound  and 
delicately  organized;  he  was  as  capable  of  distinguish- 
ing between  his  own  complete  or  partial  success  as  any 
critic  of  liis  day;  and  the  circumstance  that,  after  writ- 
ing ^^  Marco  Bozzaris,"  he  banded  the  manuscript  to  his 
fellow-clerk,  Mr.  Embury,  with  the  simple  question, 
"Will  this  do?"  was  not,  as  Mr.  H,  T.  Tuckerman  as- 
serted, an  evidence  of  "unconsciousness  of  its  superior 
merit,"  but  the  strongest  possible  proof  that  the  author 
knew  it  would  do.    The  poem  is  as  far  above  Drake's 


250  ASSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

"American  Flag"— or,  indeed,  any  Keroio  lyric  which 
np  to  that  time  had  been  written  in  this  country — as 
refined  gold  is  above  its  oroid  imitation.  The  invoca- 
tion to  Death  has  a  solemn  sweetness  which  perpetually 
haunts  the  memory  t  who  has  ever  more  nobly  described 
the  coming  of   death  to  the   hero   than  in  this   pas- 


''Come  in  her  crowning  ))^ur,  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcomo  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men  t 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh, 

To  the  world-seeking  Qenoese^ 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o^er  the  Haytian  seas." 

Carlyle  complacently  calls  Walter  Scott  "a  healthy 
man";  yet,  if  we  take  the  phrase  in  its  best  intellectual 
»  sense,  it  is  the  reverse  of  disparaging.  In  the  same 
sense  Hallcck  might  be  aptly  described  as  a  healthy 
poet.  lie  certainly  knew  no  imaginative  or  spiritual 
woes;  he  even  seemed  to  be  incapable  of  comprehend- 
ing them  in  others.  His  faculty  acted  freely,  soaring 
or  sinking  into  silence  at  its  own  good-will,  taking  the 
facts  of  life  as  something    inevitable,   without    prying 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK.  251 

into  the  mystery  of  Evil,  or  beating  its  wings  bloody 
against  that  barrier  of  transparent  adamant  which  sep- 
arated it  from  so  much  possible  Good.  He  never  at- 
tempted to  express  anything  higher  than  the  principle 
of  Manhood,  and  his  verses  sprang  from  the  source  of 
that  principle  in  his  own  being.  Poetry  so  virile  and 
sincere  can  never  wholly  lose  its  value.  Men  will  be- 
come weary  of  abstruse  metaphysical  problems  in  rhyme, 
will  occasionally  prefer  the  ordinary  moods  of  life  with- 
out any  admixture  of  doubt  or  speculation,  and,  after  a 
surfeit  of  alliteration  and  rhythmical  effect,  will  still 
find  pleasure  in  honest  and  unexaggerated  sentiment. 

I  have  interpreted  Ilalleck's  character  as  a  poet  by 
my  knowledge  of  him  as  a  man.  My  acquaintance  with 
him,  renewed  at  long  intervals,  extended  over  the  last 
fifteen  years  of  his  life.  Although  the  intolerance  of 
youth  still  clung  to  me,  and  his  tastes  and  opinions 
were  sometimes  so  divergent  from  mine  as  to  seem  in- 
credible, they  were  always  expressed  so  simply  and 
with  such  manly  gentleness  that  I  never  ventured  to 
dispute  them.  In  fact,  it  is  only  by  applying  to  my 
very  distinct  recollection  of  my  intercourse  with  him 
the  corrective  of  a  somewhat  maturer  judgment,  that  I 
have  reached  a  fairer  recognitioii  of  his  natui«e,  I  can 
see,  now,  to  what  extent  his  later  life  was  an  anachro- 
nism,— and  utterly  without  his  power  to  change  the 
fact,  No  gentleman  of  Copley's  painting,  stepped  out 
of  his  frame  into  the  life  of  our  day,  could  havO  found 


252  S^SAYS  AND  NOTES, 

himBelf  more  alien  to  onr  literary  tastes  and  prevalent 
political  views.  Nay,  it  even  seemed  that  Halleck's 
natnre  was  an  instance  of  what  Darwin  terms  the  ^re- 
versionary tendency/' — ^the  sudden  reappearance  of  an 
original  type,  after  a  long  course  of  variation;  for  he 
was  neither  republican,  democratic  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  Protestant,  nor  modem.  He  was  congenitally 
monarchical,  feudal,  knightly,  Catholic,  and  mediaeval; 
but  above  all,  hnightly^  I  do  not  suppose  that  he  had 
any  curious  habit  of  introversion,  but  a  delicate  natural 
instinct  told  him  that  he  did  not  belong — or  had  be- 
longed only  for  a  short  time— to  this  century;  and  he 
accepted  the  fact  as  he  would  have  accepted  any  fate 
which  did  not  include  degradation. 

Ilis  features  were  not  handsome,  but  the  clear,  mel* 
low  manliness  of  his  expression  made  them  seem  so. 
His  forehead,  however,  was  nobly  arched,  indicating  a 
largo  and  well-proportioned  brain,  and  it  was  balanced 
by  a  finely  formed  chin.  He  was  a  little  under  the 
medium  height,  but  his  erect  carriage,  even  as  an  old 
man,  and  his  air  of  natural  dignity,  had  the  effect  of 
adding  somewhat  to  his  stature.  I  have  never  seen  a 
man  who  was  so  simply  and  inevitably  courteous;  he 
was  an  incarnate  noblesse  oblige*  When  he  was  sitting 
to  Mr.  Hicks  for  his  portrait  (I  think  in  1855),  I  called 
several  times,  at  the  artist's  request,  to  make  his  hours 
of  service  a  little  more  endurable,  by  inciting  him  to 
talk.    He   always    gave    his   views    with    the  greatest 


FltZ-GREENE   HALLECK,  253 

frankness,  yet  would  listen  to  the  opposite  witli  a  most 
delightful  tolerance.  More  than  once,  after  uttering 
something  which  probably  brought  my  surprise  uncon- 
sciously into  my  face,  he  would  quietly  add :  "  I  am  not 
a  republican,  you  must  remember;  I  am  a  monarchist." 
I  should  also  have  supposed  him  to  be  a  Roman  Cath- 
olic, from  the  manner  in  which  he  occasionally  referred 
to  the  Church  of  Rome;  but  he  expressed,  in  i-eality, 
the  feeling  of  an  Anglican  Catholic  who  regretted  the 
separation. 

One  day  the  conversation  turned  upon  poetry,  and 
finally  led  to  a  discussion  of  some  modem  poets.  Hal- 
leck  at  once  became  interested,  straightened  himself  in 
his  chair,  and  a  new  glory,  as  if  slowly  evolved  from 
within,  came  upon  his  face.  "They  are  still  trying  to 
define  poetry,"  he  said.  "It  can  be  explained  in  a 
word:  it's  simply  the  opposite  of  reason!  Reason  is 
based  on  fact ;  and  fact  is  not  poetry.  A  poet  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  facts  of  things,  for  he  must 
continually  deny  theml"  "Will  you  give  me  an  illus- 
tration 1"  I  asked.  "Certainly,''  said  he;  and  then  he 
quoted,  not  from  Campbell,  or  Byi'on,  or  Moore,  as  I 
was  expecting,  but  these  lines  from  Wordsworth's 
^Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle":— 

«<  Armor,  rusting  on  his  walls, 
On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls. 
^  Quell  the  Scot  I '  exclaims  the  lance  : 
*36«r  me  to  the  heart  of  France  I  * 


254  Assays  and  notes. 

»  * 

la  the  longing  of  the  shield  ! 
Tell  thy  name,  thon  trembling  fletd, 
Field  of  death,  wherever  thou  be, 
^  Groan  thou  with  our  victory  I  ♦• 

"  There  1  ^  Halleck  exclaimed :  "  was  ever  anything  more 
irrational  than  the  lance  exclaiming  and  the  shield  long* 
ing? — but  what  poetry  it  isl'*  Taking  his  definition  in 
that  sense,  of  course  I  agreed  with  him;  but  when  the 
conversation  incidentally  touched  upon  later  authors,  I 
preferred  to  disagree  in  silence,  for  the  sake  of  hearing 
many  curious  and  unfamiliar  opinions.  I  found  that 
he  was  no  admirer  of  Tennyson,  although  he  admitted 
that  the  latter  possessed  genius  in  a  distorted  form.  I 
quoted  several  passages  without  much  effect,  until  I 
happened  to  remember  the  little  fragment  called  "  The 
Eagle,*'  which  Halleck  had  never  heard:— 

**  fie  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  I 
Close  to  the  sun,  in  lonely  lands, 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world  he  stands.** 

A  sudden  light  flashed  into  the  poet's  eye.  ***  Ringed 
with  the  azure  world,***  he  repeated;  "yes,  that*s  poe- 
try 1**  Presently  he  continued:  "Browning  seems  to 
be  becoming  very  popular.  I  had  read  very  little  of 
him,  and  that  little  I  did  not  like;  but  I  thought  I 
must  try  again.  So  the  other  day  I  took  up  his  last 
volume,  and  the  very  first  line  of  the  first  poem  was 


FfTZ-GREENE   HALLECK.       .  255 

tins:  *  Where  tlio  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles  1' 
How  can  an  end  smile?  Evening  may  do  so, — but  *tlie 
quiet-colored  end '  I  The  next  line  was :  <  Miles  and 
miles' — so  that  the  end  was  not  merely  smiling,  but  it 
smiled  miles  and  miles!  It  was  impossible  for  mo  to 
read  any  more,  I  see  that  people  nowadays  admire 
these  things,  and  are  not  offended  by  the  violation  of 
good  grammar  and  rhetoric,  but  I  can't  understAnd  it ! " 

It  has  often  occurred  to  mo,  since,  that  Ilalleck's 
feudal  inclinations  sprang  from  the  partial  suppression— 
or,  at  least,  the  imperfect  development—of  his  eesthetio 
nature.  With  all  his  monarchical  faith,  he  was  a  sin- 
cere and  devout  lover  of  his  country,  and  there  is  no 
touch  of  disloyalty  to  the  principles  of  her  government 
in  his  poetry.  Perhaps,  also,  he  unconsciously  exagge- 
rated his  views,  since  they  might  indirectly  explain  his 
silence  to  the  generation  for  which  he  did  not  and 
could  not  sing.  During  the  latter  years  of  his  life  he 
was  overlooked,  except  by  the  circle  of  old  friends  who 
knew  the  pure  integrity  and  nobility  of  his  nature,  and 
in  many  of  whom  the  music  of  his  early  fame  still 
found  an  echo.  To  these,  and  to  a  small  circle  of  cul- 
tivated men  in  other  parts  of  the  country,  his  monu- 
ment is  due. 

I  saw  him  last,  about  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
on  ono  of  his  visits  to  New  York.  Calling  with  a 
friend  at  the  quiet  hotel  where  he  was  wont  to  lodge, 
I  found  that  he  was  ill,  and  would  have  withdrawn ; 


256  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

but  he  Bent  down  a  request  tliat  we  elionld  go  to  Iub 
room.  With  unneceBsarj  courtesy,  he  had  risen  from 
his  bed  and  taken  an  arm-chair;  he  looked  weak  and 
euffering;  but  his  kindliness  and  gentle  grace  were  so 
perfect  as  to  be  really  touching.  It  was  impossible  to 
detect  how  much  effort  he  made  to  converse  cheerfully ; 
the  spirit  of  the  knightly  gentleman  controlled  his  body, 
and  gave  him  a  factitious  ease,  which  I  trust  we  did 
not  abuse. 

No  great  poet  is  ever  suddenly  bom  into  an  age 
barren  of  poetry*  He  has  his  forerunners  as  well  as  his 
successors.  Our  only  earlier  poet  than  Ilalleck  is  Ilich- 
ard  II«  Dana;  but  his  strains  are  few  and  grave,  and 
they  reached  the  public  after  the  ringing  lyrics  of  the 
former.  "Wo  must  count  them  both  as  forerunnors  of 
the  greiiior  imtnuH  in  Atnerican  Litoraturo  that  have 
since  cuiiio,  and  tlio  greater  that  may  yet  come*  If 
Halleck  attained  an  easier  fame  than  would  be  possible 
to  like  achievement  now,  we  must  not  forget  that  it 
was  through  rising  so  much  higher  than  those  before 
and  beside  him.  For  a  short  time  he  was  the  repre- 
sentative of  our  poetry  as  Irving  was  of  our  prose ;  and 
both  were  the  prophecies  of  their  later  brethren.  It  is 
idle  to  speculate  (although  the  world  is  very  fond  of  so 
speculating)  upon  what  might  have  been  the  result 
if  an  author  had  yielded  to,  or  resisted,  this  or  that 
influence.  Most  lives  shape  themselves,  in  spite  of 
seeming  possibilities;  and  they  do  not  often  fail  fairly 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK,  257 

to  represent  the  qualitj  of  the  man.  Taking  both  his 
literary  record  and  the  somewhat  uneventful  story  of 
his  modest  life,  we  shall  find  no  reason  to  diminish  our 
offering  of  respect  and  honor  to  Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 


WHLTAM  OULLEN  BRYANT. 


Tbakblation  of  ths  Iliad. 

THE  appearance  of  this  work  is  in  more  senses 
than  one  an  event  in  onr  literary  history.  Next 
in  importance  to  the  production  of  great  original  works 
is  the  naturalization  in  another  land  and  language  of 
the  master-pieces  of  literature.  "We  cannot  say  that  the 
labor  of  translation  has  hitherto  been  undervalued;  but 
it  has  rarely,  in  our  tongue,  been  performed  with  that 
abnegation  of  the  translator's  personality  through  which 
alone  the  original  author  can  receive  justice.  The  fact 
that  our  two  most  distinguished  poets,*  independently 
undertaking  their  separate  tasks,  substantially  agree  in 
their  method — and  that  method  unquestionably  the  cor- 
rect one— confirms  us  in  the  hope  that  the  great  poets 
of  other  lands  and  ages  may  receive  their  fittest  English 
.  speech  through  American  authors. 

The  divergence  of  our  national  temperament  from 
its  original  character,  is  in  this  respect  a  fortunate  cir- 
cumstance.    A  great   many   causes   have   combined  to 
make  the  American  a  much  more  flexible,  sympathetic, 
*  Mr.  Brjant  and  Mr.  Longfellow.    [Ed.] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,  259  ' 

impressionable  creature  than  his  ancestor  or  contempo- 
rary cousin.  Not  being  born  to  fixed  habits  of  thought, 
he  more  easily  assumes,  or  temporarily  identifies  himself 
with  those  of  other  races;  he  is  more  competent  to 
shift  his  point  of  view ;  he  is  more  capable  of  surren- 
dering himself  to  foreign  influences,  and  recovering  his 
native  manner  when  the  occasion  has  passed.  His 
power  of  sensation  is  keener,  his  capacity  for  enthusi-. 
asm  greater. 

The  only  people  who  have  hitherto  possessed  a  sim- 
ilar sympathetic  quality  of  mind  —  the  Germans — have 
most  admirably  transferred  to  their  language  the  char- 
acteristics of  foreign  genius.  For  the  faithful  reproduc- 
tion of  the  thought,  style,  and  atmosphere  of  an  author, 
their  translations  are  unsurpassed.  The  delightful  Sans- 
krit poet,  Kalidasa,  is  almost  an  Oriental  Englishman  in 
Wilson's  translation:  whereas,  in  Ruckert's,  he  ia  still 
thoroughly  an  Indian,  expressing  himself  in  German. 
So  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets,  whose  meters  have  by 
this  time  become  completely  acclimated  in  Germany, 
continue  to  dwell  on  Attican,  Sicilian,  or  Sabine  soil, 
though  their  speech  is  changed.  Neither  in  English 
nor  in  French,  has  the  individuality  of  the  poet  ever 
been  so  conscientiously  preserved,  as  in  German,  Yet, 
with  the  exception  of  its  power  of  forming  new  com- 
pounds, it  possesses  no  advantage  over  the  English 
tongue ;  while  in  terseness,  in  direct,  noble  simplicity 
it  is  decidedly  inferior  to  the  latter.    The  English  Ian* 


260  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

gnage  lias  resources  of  sweetness,  strength,  flexibilitj, 
and  variety  of  diction,  which  eminently  qualify  it  to 
reproduce .  many  of  the  finest  characteristics  of  exotic 
literature.  But  its  poetic  translators,  unfortunately, 
have  hitherto  attempted  to  represent  their  author  in 
the  prevalent  fashion  of  their  day.  Instead  of  acknowl* 
edging  the  supreme  authority  of  his  style  and  manner, 
they  have  set  about  recasting  it — a  process  wherein  the 
pure  quality  of  the  author's  thought  is  sure  to  take 
more  or  less  color  from  the  translator's  individual  tastes 
and  modes  of  expression.  Thus  it  is  that  no  English 
version  of  the  Hiad  has  yet  been  accepted  as  a  perma- 
nent part  of  English  literature,  each,  in  its  turn,  having 
been  superseded  by  another  which  better  conformed  to 
the  taste  of  the  age. 

The  distinguishing  qualities  of  Homer's  genius,  and 
the  deficiencies  of  his  translators,  have  nowhere  been 
so  succinctly  stated  as  by  Matthew  Arnold.  "  Homer  is 
rapid  in  his  movements;  Homer  is  plain  in  his  words 
and  style;  Homer  is  simple  in  his  ideas;  Homer  is 
noble  in  his  manner.  Cowper  renders  him  ill  because 
he  is  slow  in  his  movement  and  elaborate  in  his  style; 
Pope  renders  him  ill  because  he  is  artificial  both  in 
his  style  and  his  words;  Chapman  renders  him  ill  be- 
cause he  is  fantastic  in  his  ideas;  Mr.  Newman  renders 
him  ill  because  he  is  odd  in  his  words  and  ignoble  in 
his  manner."  To  these  four  must  be  added  Lord 
Derby,  whose  translation  has  become  unexpectedly  pop- 


WILLIAAf  CULLEN  BRYANT,  261 

ular  because  it  is  a.  real  improvement  on  the  work  of 
his  ^  predecessors,  and  who  fails  of  high  success  chiefly 
because  he  has  missed  those  subtile  graces,  those  fortu- 
nate strokes  of  expression,  which  only  a  poet  can  ade- 
quately recognize  and  only  a  poet  can  reproduce. 

With  regard  to  metrical  form,  wo  presume  no  one 
will  deny  that  that  of  the  author  must  bo  chosen,  where 
the  translator's  language  will  admit  of  it  without  too 
great  a  sacrifice.  If  this  is  impracticable,  then  that 
form  which  is  most  nearly  an  equivalent  for  the  origi- 
nal— which  will  best  represent  the  poet's  style  and  man- 
ner. This  is  a  question  which,  in  its  application  to 
Homer,  has  been  much  discussed  by  English  scholars. 
The  classic  hexameter  of  the  Iliad,  the  old  ballad- 
measure,  the  heroic  couplet,  the  narrative  iambic  tetra- 
meter, and  the  unrhymed  pentameter  which  we  call 
"blank  verse''  have  their  zealous  supporters.  It  is  un- 
necessary to  review  the  discussion,  for  the  best  authori- 
ties seem  to  have  narrowed  the  question  to  a  choice 
between  hexameters  and  blank  verse.  The  former  meas- 
ure would  seem  to  be  imperatively  prescribed  to  the 
translator,  but  for  one  circumstance — it  is  not  yet  fairly 
established  as  a  legitimate  English  meter.  The  ears 
which  delight  in  its  stately  march,  its  richness  and  va- 
riety of  movement,  are  still  very  few.  In  spite  of  the 
efforts  of  Longfellow,  Clough  and  Elingsley  to  natural- 
ize it,  hexameter  retains  an  artificial  character  for  most 
English  readers. 


262  sssAys  And  notes. 

In  the  German  language  the  case  is  different  Hex- 
ameter has  conquered  its  place,  and  now  finds  accept- 
ance from,  the  common  as  well  as  the  classical  ear. 
One  cause  of  this  success,  we  suspect,  is  the  modifica* 
tion  of  the  meter  by  the  German  poets,  to  adapt  it  to 
the  genius  of  their  language.  Klopstock,  Yoss,  Goethe, 
and  others,  write  a  hexameter  which  is  German^  not 
classic^  in  quantity  and  the  arrangement  of  the  coesu* 
ral  pauses.  No  doubt  a  similar  course  might  in  time  re- 
move much  of  the  popular  distaste  to  the  English  hcxa« 
meter.  The  difficulty  lies,  not  so  much  in  the  language 
itself,  as  in  the  skillful  handling  of  it.  The  objection, 
which  Mr.  Bryant  acknowledges,  is  perhaps  a  little  too 
forcibly  stated  in  his  preface:  "I  did  not  adopt  the 
hexameter  verse,  principally  for  the  reason  that  in  our 
language  it  is  confessedly  an  imperfect  form  of  versifi- 
cation, the  true  rythm  of  which  is  very  difficult  for 
tlxose  whose  ear  is  accustomed  only  to  our  ordinary 
meters  to  perceive."  His  chief  difficulty,  however,  as 
he  afterwards  remarks,  lies  in  the  difference  between 
the  polysyllabic  Greek  and  the  simpler,  terser  English 
—a  difference  which  would  have  compelled  him  to  sub- 
due the  thought,  by  compression  or  expansion,  to  the 
English  form. 

For  these  reasons  Mr.  Bryant  has  chosen  blank 
verse,  as  being  the  measure  which,  better  than  any 
other,  permits  fidelity  of  translation  and  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  the  style  and  manner  of  the  original  Greek. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BR  YANT,  263 

Certainly  no  other  English  measure  is  at  once  so  sim- 
ple, so  free,  and  so  noble  in  character,   and  since  the 
hexameter  (for  the  present,   at  least,)  is    both  difficult 
and  unwelcome,  there  is  no  other  form  in  which  the 
old  Ionian  could  move,  without  detriment  to  his  simple 
grandeur.     The  only  two  qualities  which  our  blank  verso 
lacks — rapidity  of  movement,  and  a  certain  artlessness 
which,  in  the  original,  is  always    consonant    with    the 
Homeric  dignity — must  be  supplied,  so  far  as  possible, 
by  the  translator's  skill.     For  this  reason,  if  for  no  other, 
only  a  true  poet  should  undertake  a  version  of  the  Iliad. 
Mr.   Bryant  combines  the  necessary  conditions  to  a 
much    greater  extent  than  any  other    author  who    has 
hitherto  undertaken  the  task.    lie  is  not  only  a  poet 
but  a  poet  whose  utterances  have  been  singularly  free 
from    the   varying    fashions  of  his   day.    Moreover,  of 
all  living  authors  who  write  the  English  language,  not 
one  has  shown    a  finer    natural   perception  of  the  best 
qualities  of  blank  verse,  or  has  employed  that  simplest, 
yet  most  difficult  of  measures,  with  more  distinguished 
success.    From  the  "  Thanatopsis "   of  his  youth  to  the 
latest  and  ripest  production  of  his  age,  he  has  written 
no  poem   in  this    measure  which  is  not   marked   by  a 
simplicity  of  diction,  sometimes  almost  daring,  yet  al- 
ways sustained  by  his  inherent  dignity  of  style.    He  is 
wholly  without    mannerisms.    His   art    never   aims    at 
being  effectual,    and   thus   never   betrays    itself.      His 
blank  verse  is  formed  on  the  best  models,  yet  without 


264  1         lisSAYS  AI/D  NOTES. 

suggesting  tKem:  it  asstimed  its  own  independent  char- 
acter from  the  start  If,  here  and  there,  it  seems  to 
show  a  resemblance  to  "Wordsworth's,  the  resemblance 
will  be  found  to  lie  rather  in  the  temper  of  thought 
of  the  two  poets,  than  in  the  structure  of  their  verse. 
"  Simplicity,  nobility,  and  a  plainness  which  rivals 
prose  without  being  itself  prosaic,  are  the  characteristics 
of  Mr.  Bryant's  style.  A  certain  intense,  nervous  force, 
and  a  power  of  rapid  movement,  are  also  necessary  to 
the  man  who  would  translate  Homer.  Mr.  Bryant  is 
popularly  considered  to  be  chiefly  a  grave,  contemplative 
poet  because  his  Muse,  with  a  Doric  severity,  holds  his 
passion  and  imagination  subject.  The  evidence  of  the 
latter  qualities  is  latent  rather  than  expressed,  and  may 
easily  escape  the  careless  reader.  Very  few  understand 
that  the  capacity  of  true  repose  presupposes  vigor.  A 
single  passage  from  Mr.  Bryant's  "Antiquity  of  Free- 
dom" is  all  we  need  to  illustrate  his  force  and  move- 
ment: 

"Power  at  thee  has  launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee  \ 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  heaven. 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 
The  bolts  are  shivered  and  the  prison-walls 
Fall  outward  :  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies.** 


WILLIAAf  CULLEN  BRYAJVT,     .  266 

In  his  translation  ot  tlio  Iliad,  therefore,  \ro  are  not 
surprised  at  Mr.  Bryant's  power  of  adapting  his  verse  to 
the  changing  moods  of  the  original,  His  skill  is  ail  ihe 
more  remarkable  from  the  apparent  absence  of  effort. 
In  this  respect  lie  greatly  surpasses  Cowper,  the  only 
reputable  poet  who  has  made  a  translation  in  the  same 
measure.  Wo  do  not  mean  to  institute  a  comparison 
botwcon  the  two  works,  for  the  reason  that  Cowper'g 
Hiad,  although  it  enjoyed  a  brief  popularity,  is  now 
practically  obsolete;  its  languid  movement  and  lack  of 
compact,  pictui^esque  diction  sufficiently  account  for  its 
failure.  Some  comparison  with  the  Hiad  of  Lord  Derby, 
however,  is  suggested  by  the  recent  publication  of  the 
latter,  and  the  very  respectable  success  which  it  has 
achieved. 

Let  us  begin  with  the  opening  lines,  which  Lord 
Derby  renders  thus: 

**0f  Pelcus*  son,  Achilles,  sing,  O  Muse, 
The  vengeance  deep  and  deadly  ;  'whence  to  Greece 
Unnumbered  ills  arose  ;  which  many  a  soul 
Of  mighty  warriors  to  the  viewless  shades 
tJntimely  sent ;  they  on  the  battle  plain 
Unburied  lay,  a  prey  to  ravening  dogs, 
And  carrion  birds ;  but  so  had  Jove  decreed, 
From  that  sad  day  when  first  in  wordy  war, 
The  mighty  Agamemnon,  King  of  men, 
Confronted  stood  by  Peleus^  godlike  son.** 

And  Mr,  Bryant  thus : 


866  J^SSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

"0  Goddess  !  sing  the  wrath  of  Peleus*  son, 
Achilles  ;  sing  the  deadly  wrath  that  brought 
Woes  numberless  upon  the  Greeks,  and  swept 
'  To  Hades  many  a  valiant  soul,  and  gave 

Their  limbs  a  prey  to  dogs  and  birds  of  air,— 
For  so  had  Jove  appointed, — from  the  time 
When  the  two  chiefs,  Atrides,  king  of  men, 
And  great  Achilles,  parted  first  as  foes.^* 

We  do  not  need  to  point  out  the  greater  Bimpllcitj) 
vigor  and  compactnesa  of  the  latter  version.  The  open- 
ing invocation  is  more  direct,  and  gives  the  original 
thea^  which  is  finer  than  "  Muse ;"  the  "  many  a  sonl  of 
mighty  warriors  to  the  viewless  shades "  of  Lord  Derby, 
has  not  the  Homeric  plainness  of  Mr.  Bryant's  "swept 
to  Hades  many  a  valiant  soul  ;**  the  latter*s  closing  lines 
are  both  smoother  and  more  forcible;  and  the  gram- 
matical structure  of  the  passage,  rather  clumsy  in  the 
former,  is  entirely  elegant  in  the  latter. 

As  an  instance  of  the  superior  resonance  and  har- 
mony which  may  be  attained  by  a  variety  of  translation 
BO  slight  as  to  be  of  no  literal  importance,  we  quote  the 
commencement  of  the  prayer  to  Apollo,  which  is  thrice 
repeated  in  the  First  Book.    First,  Lord  Derby: 

**Hear  me  God  of  the  silver  bow  I  whose  care 
Chrysa  surrounds,  and  Cilia's  lovely  vale  ; 
Whose  sovereign  sway  o*er  Tenedos  extends  j 
O  Smintheus,  hear  !" 

Mr.  Bryant: 


WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT,  267 

"Hear  me,  thou  bearer  of  the  silver  bow,  , 

'Who  guardest  Chrysa,  and  the  holy  isle 
Of  Cilia,  and  art  lord  in  Tenedos, 
O  Smintheus  1" 

The  meeting  of  the  Greeks,  in  the  Second  Book,  il- 
lustrates the  difference  in  movement  of  the  two  versions. 
One  author,  the  reader  instinctively  feels,  has  fdt  the 
crowding  haste  of  the  original  lines,  and  striven  to  re- 
produce it,  while  the  other  has  either  failed  in  the  same 
delicate  appreciation  of  the  character  of  the  passage,  or 
has  lacked  the  power  of  transferring  it  to  English  words, 
Mr.  Bryant's  rendering  of  the  passage  is  admirable; 

*'  He  spake,  and  left  the  council,  and  the  rest, 
All  sceptred  kings,  arose,  prepared  to  obey 
The  shepherd  of  the  people.    AH  the  Greeks 
Meanwhile  came  thronging  to  the  appointed  place. 
As,  swarming  forth  from  cells  within  the  rock, 
Coming  and  coming  still,  the  tribe  of  bees 
Ply  in  a  cluster  o'er  the  flowers  of  Spring, 
And  some  are  darting  out  to  right  and  left, 
80  from  the  ships  and  tents  a  multitude 
Along  the  spacious  beach,  in  mighty  throngs, 
Moved  toward  the  assembly.    Rumor  went  with  them, 
The  messenger  of  Jove,  and  urged  them  on. 
And  now,  when  they  were  met,  the  place  was  stunned 
With  clamor ;  earth,  as  the  great  crowd  sat  down, 
Groaned  under  them  ;  a  din  of  mingled  cries 
Arose ;  nine  shouting  heralds  strove  to  hush 
•     The  noisy  crowd  to  silence,  that  at  length 

The  heaven-descended  monarchs  might  be  beard.  *^ 


208  JSSSJ  YS  AND  NOTES. 

Lord  Derby's  translation  varies  but  sUghtly  from 
this  in  substance;  yet  in  execution  there  is  the  gulf  be- 
tween the  two,,  which  always  opens  between  the  best 
results  of  Labor  and  TaBte,  and  the  achieyements  of 
that  gift  which  is  bom  and  never  to  be  acquired: 

''fie  said,  and  from  the  council  led  the  way* 
Uprose  the  sceptred  monarchs,  and  obeyed 
Their  leader's  call,  and  round  them  thronged  the  crowd, 
As  swarms  of  bees,  that  pour  in  ceaseless  stream 
From  out  the  crevice  of  some  hollow  rock, 
Kow  clustering,  and  anon  ^mid  yernal  flowers, 
Borne  here,  some  there,  in  busy  numbers  fly  ; 
Bo  to  th*  Assembly  from  their  tents  and  ships 
The  countless  tribes  came  thronging  ;  in  their  midst| 
By  Jove  enkindled,  Rumor  urged  them  on. 
Great  was  the  din  ;  and  as  the  mighty  mass 
Bat  down,  the  solid  earth  beneath  them  groaned  ( 
Nine  heralds  raised  their  voices  loud,  to  queU 
The  storm  of  tongues,  and  bade  the  noisy  crowd 
Be  still  and  listen  to  the  Heay*n-born  Kings.** 

It  would  bo  very  easy  to  run  the  parallel  much  fur- 
ther, but  we  have  already  indicated  the  chief  points  of 
difference  between  the  two  versions;  and  perhaps,  after 
all,  the  simplest  way  of  expressing  them  would  be  to 
gay— Mn  Bryant  is  a  poet,  and  Lord  Derby  is  not.  The 
Catalogue  of  the  Grecian  army,  in  the  Second  Book,  is 
A  subject  which  tests  the  powers  of  the  translator,  by 
its  bare,  mechanical  character;    and  we  have  nowhere 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT:  £69 

found  Mr.  Bryant's  instinct  surer  than  here.  In  repeat- 
ing the  long  roll  of  names  without  falling  into  prosodi- 
cal  tangles,  or  monotony  of  phrase,  or  a  formal  manner 
of  statement,  he  exhibits  both  his  mastery  of  the  Ian- 
guige  and  the  graceful  skill  whereby  he  overcomes  the 
diiSculties  of  the  original.  The  passages  are  much  too 
long  to  quote,  but  the  reader  who  will  take  the  trouble 
to  compare  translations  will  perceive  by  what  slight 
and  simple  means  Mr.  Bryant  has  set  the  Catalogue  to 
harmony,  and  prevented  the  mind  from  becoming  weary 
by  satisfying  the  ear. 

"We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  contrasting  a 
portion  of  the  Hiad  in  blank  verse  with  the  correspond- 
ing lines  in  hexameter  —  that  fragment,  translated  by 
Dr.  Hawtrey,  which  Mr.  Arnold  pronounces  to  be  the 
nearest  approach  to  the  effect  of  the  original  text,  in 
English  words.  It  is  in  the  Third  Book,  and  Helen  is 
speaking: 

'*  *•  Clearly  the  rest  I  behold  of  the  dark-eyed  sons  of  Achaia ; 

Known  to  me  well  are  the  faces  of  all ;  their  names  I  remem. 
ber  ! 

Two,  two  only  remain,  whom  I  see  not  among  the  com- 
manders, 

Castor  fleet  in  the  car, — ^Polydeukes  brave  with  the  cestus, — 

Own  dear  brethren  of  mine ;  one  parent  loved  us  as  iniants. 

Are  they  not  here  in  the  host,  from  the  shores  of  loved  Lv 
cedsemon, 

Or,  though  they  came  with  the  rest  in  ships  that  bound 
through  the  waters, 


1 
270'  ^^^  y^  ^^^  NOTES. 

Bare  they  not  enter  the  fight  or  ttand  in  the  council  of 
Heroes, 

All  for  fear  of  the  shame^  and  the  taunts  mj  crime  has  awak- 
ened!* 

So  said  she ; — ^thej  long  since  in  £arth*s  soft  arms  were  re- 
posing, 

There,  in  their  own  dear  land,  their  Fatherland,  Lacednmon.** 

Mr*  Bryaht^s  version  of  these  lines  is  mnch  more 
simple :  I 

« <  I  could  point  out  and  name  the  other  chiefs 
Of  the  dark-eyed  Achaians.    Two  alone, 
Princes  among  their  people,  are  not  Been>-> 
Castor  the  fearless  horseman,  and  the  skilled 
In  boxing,  Pollux, — twins  ;  one  mother  bore 
Both  at  one  birth  with  me.    Did  they  not  come 
From  pleasant  Lacedoemon  to  the  war  f 
Or,  having  crossed  the  deep  in  their  good  shipi^ 
Shun  they  to  fight  among  the  valiant  ones 
Of  Greece,  because  of  my  reproach  and  shame  V 

She  spake ;  but  they  already  lay  in  earth 
In  Laccdffimon,  their  dear  native  land.'* 

Here  each  translator  has  his  special  merits.  l£r. 
'Bryant  fa  plain,  compact,  and  gives  the  words  of  Helen 
a  practical  directness  which  scarcely  hints  at  emotion. 
Dr.  Hawtrey's  lines,  on  the  other  hand,  somewhat  am- 
plify the  text,  yet  exhale  a  sentiment  of  regret  and  ten- 
derness. Perhaps  no  better  specimens  of  the  two  meas- 
ures could  be  selected.     To  our  thinking,  they  justify 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,  271 

botli  Mr.  Bryant's  choice  of  blank  verse  for  his  version, 
and  the  prospect  that  at  some  future  day — fifty  years, 
a  century,  two  centuries  hence, — the  ears  of  English- 
reading  people  will  be  trained  to  a  proper  delight  in 
one  of  the  richest  and  stateliest  of  meters — the  dactylic 
hexameter. 

As  we  turn  over  the  clear,  deliciously-printed  pages, 
we  find  ourselves  constantly  arrested  by  passages  which 
tempt  quotation  for  their  rhetoric,  rhythm,  or  move- 
ment; but  the  finish  of  all  parts  is  so  equal  and  admi- 
rable that  we  are  forced  to  select  those  portions  which 
are  best  known  through  recent  discussion.  We  find  no 
sign  of  languor  or  indifference  in  any  part  of  the  volume. 
The  labor  of  translation  is  most  effectually  concealed, 
and  the  reader  is  carried  forward  as  on  a  broad,  swift 
stream,  brimming  full  to  its  banks,  and  unruffled  because 
of  its  depth  and  volume. 

"We  quote  (because  we  suspect  the  reader  will  look 
for  it)  the  famous  description  of  the  watch-fires,  at  the 
end  of  the  Eighth  Book.    First,  Lord  Derby: 

"Full  of  proud  hopes,  upon  the  pass  of  war, 
All  night  they  camped ;  and  frequent  blazed  their  firei. 
As  when  in  Heaven,  around  the  glittering  moon, 
The  Btars  shino  bright  amid  the  breathless  air ; 
And  ev'ry  crag  and  ev^ry  jutting  peak 
Stands  boldly  forth,  and  ev^ry  forest  glade ; 
Ev^n  to  the  gates  of  Heaven  is  opened  wide 
The  boundless  sky ;  shines  each  particular  star 


273  ^SSA  VS  AND  NOTES. 

Distinct ;  Joy  flUs  the  gazing  shepherd*!  heart 
Bo  bright,  so  thickly  scattered  o*er  the  plain, 
Before  the  walls  of  Troy,  between  the  ships 
And  Xanthus*  stream,  the  Trojan  watch-fires  blai'd^ 
A  thousand  fires  burnt  brightly ;  and  round  each 
Bat  fifty  warriors  in  the  ruddy  glare ; 
Champing  the  provender  before  them  laid, 
Barley  and  rye,  the  tethered  horses  stood 
Beside  the  cars,  and  waited  for  the  mom.** 

*We  add,  for  the  sake  of    further  compariBOii)  Mr* 
Tennyson's  translation  of  this  same  passage: 

**And  these  all  night  upon  the  ridge  of  war 
Bat  glorying  ;  many  a  fire  before  them  blazed ) 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  hiid 
And  every  hight  e&met  out  and  jutting  peak 
And  valley^  and  the  immeaturdtle  lieavent 
liredk  open  to  their  highest^  and  all  the  stan 
Bhine  and  the  shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart  | 
Bo  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain ;  and  close  by  each, 
Bat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire  ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Close  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn«** 

This  is  Mr.  Bryant's  Version: 

**  Bo,  high  in  hope,  they  sat  the  whole  night  through 
In  warlike  lines,  and  many  watch-fires  blazed. 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  look  brightly  forth 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  273 

Hound  the  clear-shining  moon,  while  not  a  breeze 
Stirs  in  the  depths  of  air,  and  all  the  stars 
Are  seen,  and  gladness  fills  the  shepherd's  heart, 
So  many  fires  in  sight  of  Ilium  blazed, 
Lit  by  the  sons  of  Troy,  between  the  ships 
And  eddying  Xanthus  :  on  the  plain  there  shone 
A  thousand  ;  fifty  warriors  by  each  fire 
Sat  in  its  light.     Their  steeds  beside  the  cars- 
Champing  their  oats  and  their  white  barley — stood, 
And  waited  for  the  golden  mom  to  rise." 

Mr,  Bryant  omits  the  lines  we  have  italicised  in  Mr, 
Tennyson's  translation,  for  the  reason  (stated  in  his  pre^ 
face)  that  they  are  regarded  by  the  best  critics  as  not 
properly  belonging  to  the  text,  but  as  transferred  to  it 
by  some  interpolator  from  another  simile  in  tho  Six- 
teenth Book.  "With  this  exception,  we  find  tho  two  lat- 
ter versions  equally  picturesque  and  elevated  in  tone : 
their  merits  are  so  fairly  balanced  that  we  should  find 
it  difticult  to  choose  between  them.  Both,  however, 
are  indisputably  closer,  stronger,  and  more  symmetri- 
cally constructed  than  Lord  Derby's. 

So  far  as  regards  an  intelligent  comprehension  of 
the  text  of  Homer,  we  suspect  there  is  no  very  marked 
difference  among  his  translators.  But,  since  so  many 
words  are  represented  by  numerous  synonyms — since 
there  are  always  two  possible  modes  of  translation,  one 
barely  prosaic,  divested  of  any  poetic  atmosphere,  and 
the  other  in  accordance  with  the  poetic  truth  of  the 
theme— we    find,  unfortunately,  that  the  original  poet 


274  £SSAyS  AND  NOTES. 

takes  mncli  of  the  tone  and  character  of  the  medixun 
through  which  he  ia  transferred  to  another  knguage. 
We  reckon  it  as  one  of  the  great  excellences  of  Mr. 
Bryant's  version,  that  it  suggests  nothing  of  the  individ- 
ual manner  of  the  translator,  except,  indeed,  those  pure 
artistic  qualities  which  are  above  all  individual  charac- 
teristics of  genius.  AVe  need  not  refer  to  the  transla- 
tions of  Hobbs,  Sotheby,  Wright,  and  others,  all  of 
which  have  passed  into  oblivion;  but  those  of  Chap- 
man, Pope,  and  Cowper  betray,  in  almost  any  passage 
that  may  be  selected,  the  individual  cliaracter  of  the 
translator's  style.  Lord  Derby  is  free  from  this  defect, 
because  he  is  no  poet  and  therefore  has  no  special  po- 
etic style  wherewith  to  clothe  his  author.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  Mr.  Newman.  We  find  thus  in  Mr. 
Bryant  (as  also  in  Mr.  Longfellow,  in  translating  the 
Divina  Commedia)  a  poet  satisfied  to  suppress  every 
manifestation  of  himself— >to  abnegate  his  own  poetio 
personality,  except  in  so  far  as  it  may  assist  in  the 
conscientious  reproduction  of  the  foreign  poet  in  his 
own  language. 

We  have  made  a  closer  comparison  with  Lord 
Derby's  Iliad,  because  of  its  resemblance,  in  form  and 
literal  fidelity,  to  Mr.  Bryant's.  Both  versions  will 
probably  have  their  advocates;  but  those  who  appre- 
ciate purity  of  diction,  the  balance  and  the  harmony  of 
rhythm,  variety  of  movement,  and  that  native  poetic 
instinct  which  combines  the  simple  and  the  picturesque, 


IVILLIAM  CVLLEN  BRYANT,  275 

the  bare  prosaic  fact  and  its  dignified  expression,  will 
prefer  that  of  Mr.  Bryant. 

Februabt,  1870. 

IL 
Poems, 

This  last  absolutely  complete  edition  of  Mr.  Bryant's 
poems,  is  the  most  welcome  gift  of  the  season.  It  con- 
tains everything  he  has  written,  including  a  few  poems 
not  given  in  any  previous  collection,  from  "Thana- 
topsis,"  which  appeared  sixty  years  ago,  to  "  The  Flood 
of  Years,"  which  came  with  this  centenary  year. 

His  "Christmas  in  1875"  (now  properly  inscribed 
"Supposed  to  be  written  by  a  Spaniard," — for  the  de- 
vice of  its  being  a  translation  deceived  none  who  ap- 
preciate the  poet's  purity  of  diction  and  meter)  is 
hardly  less  fresh  and  melodious  than  the  poems  of  his 
prime.  He  is  an  illustrious  example  of  the  youth  of 
that  highest  poetic  art,  which  does  not  spring  from 
youthful  ferment  of  the  blood,  or  the  motions  of  a 
keen,  enthusiastic  sentiment  which  is  dulled  by  time, 
but  which  is  inwoven  into  the  whole  moral  and  intel- 
lectual being  of  the  poet,  is  bom  with  liim  and  cannot 
be  lost  while  he  lives.  Mr.  Bryant's  genius  never  has 
been  exercised  save  in  agreement  with  his  literary  coa- 
scienoe.  This  single  Tolume  embraces  the  poetical  labor 
of  an  nnnsually  long  and  earnest  life;  and,  although  it 


276  £SSAyS  AND  NOTES. 

presents  varieties  of  achievement,  there  is  little  if  any* 
thing  in  it  which,  the  sternest  literary  critic  would  be 
willing  to  spare.  Indeed,  the  relative  value  of  the 
poems  depends  upon  that  of  their  themes,  rather  than 
the  execution.  In  the  slightest,  we  feel  the  presence 
of  the  same  pure  and  lofty  taste,  the  same  chastened 
imagination  and  temperate  use  of  the  abundant  richness 
of  language  which  we  know  to  be  at  the  author's  com- 
mand. Mr.  Bryant  has  never  been  a  popular  poet,  in 
the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word :  neither  is  "Words- 
worth, to  whom  he  has  the  nearest  intellectual  kinship. 
But  he  has  ever  been  conspicuous,  elevated  beyond  all 
temporary  popularities,  and  venerated  by  the  great 
mass  of  readers  who  are  unfamiliar  with  his  best 
poems.  "We  have  always  considered  his  "Antiquity 
of  Freedom"  and  "Hymn  to  Death,"  as  stronger  and 
loftier  strains  than  "  Thanatopsis,"  the  charm  of  which 
lies  chiefly  in  its  grave,  majestic  music.  Many  of  his 
brief  lyrics  are  also  compact  with  what  might  be  called 
condensed  imagination,  and  sparkle  with  new  sugges- 
tiveness  at  each  perusal  This  new  and  beautiful  edi- 
tion fitly  embalms  the  life's  work  of  one  of  the  chief 
founders  of  our  Literature. 

KOYEMBER,  1870. 


KICHAED  HENEY  DANA, 
NovEMBEB  14Tn,  1877., 

TO-DAY,  the  eecond  bom  of  tbo  first  generation  of 
American  authors — Eichard  Henry  Dana-— com- 
pleted his  ninetieth  year.  Ilia  only  predecessor  waa 
Washington  Irving,  who,  bom  on  the  third  of  April, 
1783,  waa  his  senior  by  four  years  and  seven  months. 
He  was  just  beginning  to  walk  and  talk  when  George 
Washington  waa  inaugurated  first  President  of  the 
United  States;  he  waa  advanced  from  petticoats  to 
trowsers  when  tho  French  Eovolution  broke  out;  ho 
waa  in  his  eighteenth  year  when  Schiller  died;  and  ho 
might  have  been  known  as  an  author  when  Byron,  his 
junior,  published  Childe  Harold.  A  life  prolonged 
to  such  a  date,  even  when  memory  fails,  intellect 
grows  cloudy,  and  the  body  slowly  loses  its  functions, 
is  sufllciently  rare;  bat  a  life  still  clear,  serenely  intel- 
ligent, responsive  to  all  its  old  interesta  and  enjoy- 
ments, is  almost  a  phenomenon.  It  goes  far  to  prove 
that  the  only  longevity  which  la  desirable  depends 
more  upon  intellectual  activity  than  bodily  vigor. 

Saadi,  the   Peraian  poet,  lived  to  the  age  of  one 


278  MSSAYS  AkD  NOTES. 

hnndred  and  seven;  Count  "Waldeck,  artist  and  arch* 
ceologist,  was  one  hundred  and  nine,  and  Titian  died  in 
his  hundredth  year.  But  we  cannot  now  recall  any  dis- 
tinguished authors  of  Europe,  except  Eogers  and  Lo'.-d 
Brougham,  who  passed  their  ninth  decade,  and  the 
former  of  these  was  almost  dead  to  the  living  world, 
for  several  years  before  his  end.  The  life  of  Richard 
Henry  Dana  has  a  special  interest  for  all  Amerieans, 
from  the  circumstance  that  it  includes  the  entire  lite- 
rary history  of  the  nation,  not  excepting  Barlow's 
"Vision  of  Columbus,"  which  appeared  about  the 
time  of  his  birth.  He  has  seen  the  whole  achieve- 
ment, of  which  he  is  an  honored  part.  His  own  con- 
tribution to  it  is  none  the  less  important,  because  so 
unobtrusively  made.  He  has  never  been  one  of  those 
who  attach  thoniBulvos  to  the  structure  as  a  flying  but- 
tress, or  seek  to  shoot  aloft  as  an  ornate  and  conspicu 
ous  pinnacle;  but  when  we  examine  the  foundations, 
we  shall  find  his  chisel-mark  on  many  of  the  niost  en- 
during blocks.  His  editorship  of  the  "North  American 
lloviow,"  in  the  days  when  Brj^ant  first  began  to  write, 
his  grave  and  refluod  essays,  his  jjooms,  far  above  tho 
fashion  of  the  times,  and  his  lectures  on  Shakespeare, 
were  agencies  of  pure  taste  and  profounder  culture,  the 
operation  of  which  must  have  been  much  wider  than 
wo  can  now  measure.  His  influence  has  been  conserva- 
tive, but  in  the  best  sense.  He  was  perhaps  the  very 
first    American    author    to    recognize    the    genius    of 


RldTARD  HENRY  DANA,  279 

"Wordsworth  at  its  true  value,  and  in  advance  of  most 
of  the  English  critics.  He  had  no  sympathy  with  the 
schools  of  simulated  passion  or  sentiment  which  fol- 
lowed Byron  or  Mrs.  Ilemans,  and  was  content  to  be 
ignored  while  they  were  triumphant.  But  the  day  has 
come,  at  last,  when  every  one  who  studies  the  history 
of  our  intellectual  development,  must  of  necessity  rec- 
ognize the  services  he  rendered. 

Mr.  Dana  comes  of  a  distinguished  line,   and   is  the 
literary  link  between  a  father  famed  in  jurisprudence 
and   a   son   who  has   already  won  an  honored  name  in 
the   same   field.     The   son   of   Chief   Justice   Dana,  of 
Massachusetts;  the  grandson  of  AVilliam  Ellery,  the  rela- 
tive of  Dr.  Channing  and  Washington  Allston^  his  life 
has  been  passed  in  an  atmospliere  of  high  thinking  and 
upright  action.    He  has,   perhaps,   been  less  originally 
creative  as  an  author  than   would  have  been   the   case 
under  other  circumstances,  for  the  reason  that  much  of 
the   expression  which  his   intellect    craved   already   ex- 
isted around  him.    But  it  has  been  a  happy  life,  inspir- 
ing esteem  from  others  at  the  start,  and  now  blessed  by 
the  love  and  reverence  of  his  family  and  friends.    He 
still  rides  out  and  draws  refreshment  from  the  stir  of 
the  Boston  streets,  still  retains  his  interest  in  all  that  is 
going  on.    In   Summer,  at  his  home  on  the  coast  near 
Manchester,  he  passes  much  of  his  time  in  the  open  air» 
and  his  sight  is  keen  to  detect  sails  so  distant  on  the 
ocean's  rim  that  they  escape  younger  eyes.     It  must 


580  JSiSA  YS  AND  NOTES, 

have  been  with  a  prophetic  instinct  of  Dana*8  present 
life  that  Bryant  wrote,  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  of 

'*a  good  old  Age,  released  from  carO) 
Journeying,  in  long  serenitj,  away. 
•    •    •    *mid  bowers  and  brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 
And  music  of  kind  Toices  ever  nigh. 


GEORGE  SAND. 
Junk  8th,  1876. 


Whex  Madame  de  Stael,  the  greatest  woman-brain 
France  had  np  to  that  time  given  to  the  world,  died 
in  Paris,  in  1817,  a  yonng  girl  of  thirteen  was  jnst 
entering  a  conventual  school  in  the  same  city,  sent 
thither  partly  to  be  educated  and  partly  to  escape  the 
coarse  wrangling  of  a  grandmother  who  was  the  left- 
handed  descendant  of  kings,  and  a  mother  who  had 
risen  from  the  dregs  of  society.  For  three  or  four  ' 
years  this  yonng  girl  found  peace  and  a  limited  diet  of 
knowledge  in  her  seclusion,  and  the  impassioned  dreams 
born  of  her  awakened  religious  feeling  never  allowed 
her  to  imagine  that  a  crown,  richer  and  more  resplend- 
ent than  that  of  the  great  woman  who  had  passed  away, 
was  waiting  for  her  own  browi 

Now,  as  she  lies  dead,  there  will  be  few  to  deny 


GEORGE  SAND,  281 

that  in  George  Sand  France  has  lost  a  greater  than 
Madame  de  Stael.  The  works  of  the  two  women  are 
as  dissimilar  as  their  fortunes ;  in  character  and  temper- 
ament we  find  few  points  wherein  they  coincide.  The 
latter  not  only  possessed,  but  cultivated,  a  masculine  tone 
in  all  she  said  and  wrote :  the  former  is  distinctly  femi- 
nine, even  in  her  highest  intellectual  expression.  That 
is,  she  illustrates  the  completeness  of  the  form  to  wliich 
genius  may  rise  when  it  works  through  a  woman's  brain. 
Madame  de  Stael  was  an  observer,  a  critic,  a  diplomatist : 
George  Sand  was  a  creative  artist.  In  her  conscience, 
her  devotion  to  a  lofty  literary  ideal,  her  untiring  acqui- 
sitions in  every  department  of  knowledge,  she  was  only 
equaled  by  Balzac ;  but  out  of  feeling  and  passion  and 
imagination  she  distilled  a  style  as  pure  and  nobly  sus- 
tained as  he  achieved  by  colder  study  and  labor.  Even 
when  she  deals  with  such  subjects  as  the  monastic  life, 
communism,  or  social  problems  springing  from  the  re- 
lations of  the  sexes,  and  is  compelled  to  express  her  ideas 
chiefly  through  male  characters,  the  reader  never  fo»*get8 
that  it  is  a  large-natured,  clear-brained,  great  woman 
who  speaks, — the  original  equal,  not  the  copy,  of  a  great 
man. 

If  the  whole  truth  could  be  known,  and  weighed  in 
a  juster  than  the  ordinary  human  balance,  we  suspect 
that  George  Sand's  life  would  not  entirely  lack  the 
grandeur  of  the  victory  of  character  over  circumstances. 
She  certainly  achieved,  before  her  death,  the  full  right 


283  JSiSSA  YS  AND  NOTES. 

to  obllviou  of  her  confused,  etrnggling  and  wandering 
years.  If,  on  the  one  hand,  manj  faults  may  be  charged 
against  her,  on  the  other  she  faced  and  outlived  much 
cruel  calumny  and  malice.  When  we  consider  what 
blood  ran  in  her  veins — ^that  of  King  Augustus  the 
Strong  of  Poland,  who,  as  Carlyle  says,  "lived  in  this 
world  regardless  of  expense,'*  of  the  fair  and  frail  Aurora 
von  Konigsmark,  of  Marshal  Saxe,  and.  of  the  vulgar 
woman  who  was  made  her  father's  wife  in  order  to  le- 
gitimate her  own  birth — we  may  surmise,  not  what  the 
world  believed  of  her,  but  the  untold  conflicts  and  the 
unrecorded  victories  which  it  never  knew.  "We  see  her, 
alone  and  peimiless  in  Paris,  with  a  single  literary  friend, 
painfully  bridging  over  the  gulf  between  vague  concep- 
tion and  coherent  expression :  we  see  her,  once  the  power 
acquired,  giving  forth  work  after  work,  each  clearer, 
stronger,  endowed  with  a  richer  vitality  than  its  prede- 
cessor :  we  see  her,  finally,  at  the  hight  of  her  fame  and 
fortune,  when  a  merely  epicurean  nature  would  have 
been  content  to  enjoy  them,  relaxing  no  atom  of  devo- 
tion to  her  task,  yielding  nothing  of  her  warm  human 
faith,  shrinking  from  no  expression  of  conviction  or  per- 
formance of  duty  to  her  fellow-men. 

It  is  not  too  much,  therefore,  to  accept  George  Sand 
as  a  type  of  greatness  of  character  no  less  than  of  great- 
ness of  intellect.  Her  fame  is  due  to  no  early  favor  of 
genius,  no  fortunate  accident :  it  is  the  result  of  untiring 
labor,  of  boundless  faith  in  her  art.     As  we  trace  her 


GEORGE  SAND,  283 

achievementB  back  to  their  timid  and  painful  beginnings, 
it  is  impossible  to  withhold  from  her  the  renown  of  being 
one  of  the  four  or  five  greatest  feminine  brains  the  race 
has  ever  produced.      In   literature  she   is  perhaps   the 
greatest.     Her  style  is  as  superior  to  that  of  Madame 
do  Stael  as  beautiful  breathing  life  is  to  sculptured  mar- 
ble.   Heroin  she  surpasses  the  only  living  woman  wor- 
thy to  bo  placed  beside  her — George  Eliot.    Tlie  latter 
also  resembles  her  in  lofty  aspiration  and  cheerful  obe- 
dience to  the  laws  of  toil.     Both  are  embodied  lessons, 
which  ambitious  women— and  men  no  less — would  do  well 
to  study.    Genius  is  but  as  steam  blown  from  an  open 
vessel,  so  long  as  it  is  not  accompanied  by  intelligent 
and  unremitting  effort.    George  Sand  first  learned  what 
her  work  must  be;  then  she  learned  how  to  do  it,  and 
gave  the  best  of  her  life  to  the  deed.    In  spite  of  po- 
litical disability  she  rose  to  a  power  to  which  political 
rights  could  have  added  nothing.    In  the  field  of  intel- 
lectual exertion  and  achievement  she  did  a  man's  task, 
and  her  legacy  to  the  world  is  all  tlie  more  valuable  be* 
o^TLse  she  did  it  in  a  woman's  way. 


EDMTOrB  CLAREKCE  STEDMAN. 


VICTORIAN  toirre.— When  the  eBsay  on  "Ten- 
nyson and  Theocritus,"  which  forms  the  sixth 
chapter  of  this  work,  first  appeared  in  print,  it  was  a 
welcome  surprise  even  to  those  friends  of  Mr.  Stedman 
who  were  most  familiar  with  the  fine  and  symmetrical 
qualitos  of  his  intellect.  That  pure  poetic  insight  which 
is  the  vital  spirit  of  criticism  is  often  combined  with 
the  faculty  of  song,  and  even  with  the  patient  toil  of 
*the  scholar;  but  the  calm,  judicial  temperament,  which 
restricts  the  warmth  of  the  one  and  the  tendency  of 
the  other  to  minute  and  wearisome  detail,  is  a  much 
rarer  element  in  the  composition  of  an  author's  mind. 
The  tone  of  the  essay,  resulting  from  such  a  happy 
conjunction  of  powers,  was  no  less  admirable  than  its 
substance  j  and,  since  the  author  who  earnestly  appre- 
hends his  calling  cannot  but  feel  his  o\vn  success,  and 
be  stimulated  to  extend  it,  the  present  volume  has 
grown  as  naturally  as  a  flower-— or,  let  us  rather  say, 
an  oak — from  the  planted  seed. 

The   readers  of  this  magazine  are  already  familiar 


EDMUND   CLARENCE  STEDMAN,  285 

With  the  three  leading  qualities  we  have  mentioned, 
through  the  series  of  papers,  commencing  with  that  en- 
titled "Victorian  Poets,"  and  tenninating  in  our  Octo- 
ber number,  which  have  received  such  wide  perusal 
and  comment.  Each  essay,  fitted  into  its  place  as  a 
chapter  of  the  "Victorian  Poets,"  is  sufiiciently  com- 
plete in  itself;  yet  it  now,  for  the  first  time,  gains  its 
proper  value  as  a  part  of  one  complete  and  hannonious 
structure.*  The  Preface,  in  which  the  author,  instead  of 
dictatorially  announcing  formulte  of  criticism  to  the 
reader,  frankly  reveals  the  intellectual  principles  of  his 
own  nature,  and  the  habits  and  interests  which, shaped 
his  work ;  the  first  chapter,  broadly  sketching  the  liter- 
ary characteristics  of  the  whole  period,  with  its  rela- 
tions to  other  well-marked  eras  in  English  literature,  and 
to  the  general  development  of  the  race;  the  clear  and 
logical  re-arrangement  of  the  contents,  giving  tliem  re* 
ciprocal  support  and  elucidation,  and  lastly,  the  analyti- 
cal index  which  completes  the  volume, — are  all  neces- 
sary portions  of  the  author's  plan.  Whatever  might 
have  seemed  abruptly  stated,  or  insufficiently  accounted 
for,  in  the  essays  as  they  appeared  separately,  now  falls 
into  its  logical  connection  with  the  leading  ideas.  A 
repenisal  of  these  essays  thus  becomes  almost  a  new 
reading. 

The  chief  excellence  of  Mr,  Stedman'g  volume 
might  be  called— especially  with  reference  to  the  prev- 
alent tone  of  modem  criticism— ethical,  no  less  than  in- 


I 

286  isSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

tellectnal.  We  allude  to  that  nobility  of  judgment,  at 
once  just  and  sympathetic,  which  seeks  the  true  point 
of  vision  for  every  branch  of  literary  art;  which  abne- 
gates the  author's  personal  tastes  and  preferences,  even 
restricting  the  dear  temptation  to  eloquence  and  ima- 
gery, whenever  they  might  mislead ;  which  regards  the 
substance  of  poetry  no  less  than  its  technical  qualities; 
and  which,  while  religiously  holding  to  its  faith  in  the 
eternal  requisites  of  simplicity  and  proportion,  recognizes 
the  imperfect  genius  of  the  writers  who  violate  these 
requisites,  or  fail  to  attain  them.  This  is  an  excellence 
which  only  an  author  may  adequately  honor ;  for  it  im- 
plies both  courage  and  the  self-denial  of  a  sound  literary 
conscience.  The  author  impresses  us,  as  we  read,  like 
one  who  drives  a  mettled  stood  with  a  firm  hand,  check- 
ing all  paces  which  might  display  a  greater  grace  or 
swiftness,  and  careful  lest  any  slower  creature  be  injured 
on  his  way.  Even  where  we  partly  dissent  from  his 
estimates,  as  in  the  cases  of  Buchanan  and  Morris,  the 
intention  of  fairness  is  so  evident  that,  contrasting  it 
with  the  tone  of  those  critics  who  seem  afraid  to 
praise  lest  praise  should  imply  some  possible  inferiority 
in  themselves,  we  are  easily  reconciled  to  his  generosity. 
The  feeling  of  the  poet  expresses  itself  only  in  his  ap* 
preciation  of  good  qualities;  for  offences,  he  applies  a 
calm,  scientific  treatment,  which  so  carries  with  it  its 
own  justification  that  the  subject  may  feel,  but  cannot 
resent  or  retaliate. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  2S7 

Mr.  Stedman's  stylo,  clear,  compact  and  vigorous,  is 
adjusted  by  a  true  artistic  sense  to  his  large  critical 
method.  It  is  purposely  less  brilliant,  in  either  a  rhetor- 
ical or  an  imaginative  character,  than  he  might  easily 
have  made  it.  Even  so  admirable  a  genius  and  so  ripe 
a  scholar  as  Mr.  Lowell  cannot  always  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  accepting  those  fine  suggestions  which  rather 
sparkle  over  the  surface  of  a  theme  than  inevitably  be- 
long to  it, — channing  the  reader,  indeed,  but  leading  him 
a  little  aside  from  the  direct  line  of  thought.  That  style 
Bcems  to  us  best  which  displays  the  subject  in  the  clear- 
est possible  light,  without  calling  special  attention  to  it- 
self ;  for  it  conceals  the  introversion  of  even  the  most 
spontaneous,  self-forgetting  author,  whom  yet  we  remem- 
ber with  double  gratitude  at  the  end  of  his  task.  In  no 
respect,  let  us  here  remark,  have  many  of  the  present 
generation  of  authors  made  a  greater  mistake,  than  in 
assuming  that  individuality  in  style  is  the  result  of  con- 
scious effort. 

The  qualities  which  Mr.  Stedman  has  exhibited  in  his 
<*  Victorian  Poets  "  ought  not  to  be  rare ;  but  they  are  so, 
in  our  day.  For  the  past  twenty  years,  the  bulk  of  that 
which  has  been  offered  to  the  public  as  literary  criticism 
in  England  and  America — with  the  exception  of  three 
or  four  distinguished  names  in  either  country — may 
readily  be  classed  under  these  three  heads:  First,  the 
lofty,  patronizing  tone,  as  of  those  who  always  assume 
their  own  infinite  superiority  to  the  authors  whom  they 


288  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES.  \ 

deign  to  notice;  secondly,  the  mechanical  treatment  of    *J 
a  class  which  posseBses  culture  without  vital,  creative 
power,  and  thus  discourages  through  its  lack  of  genuine 
sympathy  with  aspiration;    and  lastly,    the   "gushing," 
impressible  souls,  to  whom  everything  new  and  unex-     • 
pected  seems  equally  great.    There  has  probably  been  no     i 
time,  in  the  whole  course  of  intellectual  development  of 
our  race,  when  clear,  healthy,  liberal  canons  of  judgment     j 
were  more  needed  by  the  reading  public.    Mr.  Stedman 
has  slightly  touched  upon  this  point,  in  regard  to  the  sin- 
gular vagaries  of  English  taste,  in  its  estimate  of  Ameri-     \ 
can  authors.     It  was  not  within  the  scope  of  his  work 
to  do  more  than  notice  such  a  phenomenon ;  and  we  sus- 
pect that  his  own  quiet  example  will  accomplish  much 
more  in  the  way  of  a  return  to  the  true,  unchangeable 
ideals,  than  any  amount  of  polemical  writing. 

"We  have  preferred  to  dwell  upon  the  spirit  which     ' 
informs  the  volume,  rather  than  upon  the  separate  di- 
visions of  its  theme,  since  many  of  the  latter  are  already     i 
known  to  the  readers  of  this  magazine.     But  we  may 
add,  that  the    essays   upon   Tennyson,   the  Brownings, 
Arnold,  and  Swinburne,  are  surely  more  complete,  im- 
partial  and  discriminative,    than  any  English  critic   of     ' 
our  time  would  be  likely  to  write.     The  breadth  of  the 
Atlantic  may  not  be  equivalent  to  posterity,  but  it  cer-     : 
tainly  removes  a  writer  from  the  atmosphere  in  which 
a  thouHaud  present  and  personal  interests  flout,  and  aro 
breathed  as  invisible  sporos.     The  references  to  Ameri-    \ 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN,  289 

can  literature  are  perhaps  as  frequent  and  significant  as 
Mr.  Stedman's  plan  allowed;  yet,  in  view  of  an  action 
and  reaction  which  are  not  yet  balanced  as  they  ought 
to  be,  we  should  be  glad  if  the  contrast  which  is  merely 
hinted  had  been  further  developed,  "When  Mr.  Stedman 
gays :  "  After  a  close  examination  of  the  minor  poets  of 
Britain,  during  the  last  fifteen  years,  I  have  formed, 
most  unexpectedly,  the  belief  that  an  anthology  could 
be  culled  from  the  miscellaneous  poetry  of  the  United 
States,  equally  lasting  and  attractive  with  any  selected 
from  that  of  Great  Britain;"  and  adds,  shortly  after- 
ward; "I  believe  that  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when 
the  fine  and  sensitive  lyrical  feeling  of  America  will 
swell  into  floods  of  creative  song," — we  are  tempted  to 
regret  his  enforced  omission  of  the  links  which  connect 
the  literary  development  of  the  two  countries. 

The  leading  poets  of  the  Victorian  era  are  treated  at 
satisfactory  length,  and  in  spite  of  the  author's  semi- 
apology,  with  even  less  of  technical  criticism  than  would 
be  justified  by  the  special  qualities  which  separate  them 
from  their  predecessors.  They  are  not,  however,  allowed 
to  stand  isolated  in  their  time ;  they  are  attached  to  the 
past  and  the  probable  future,  and  their  art  is  not  re- 
moved from  its  place  in  the  total  development  of  the 
race.  This  breadth  of  view  is  the  secret  of  Mr.  Sted^* 
man's  impartiality.  In  the  single  instance  where  we 
have  discovered  a  bit  of  exaggeration  (page  18):  ^<The 
tmth  is,  that  our  school-girls  and  spinsters  wander  down 


2D0  ESSAYS  A^D  J^OTES. 

the  lane  with  Darwin,  Huxley  and  Spencer  under  their 
arms;  or,  if  they  carry  Tennyaon,  Longfellow  and  Mor- 
ris, they  read  them  in  the  light  off  epoctrum  analysis,  or 
tvHt  tliom  by  the  ooonomics  of  Mill  and    Bain,"— the 
fault  unconsclounly  corroots  itself,  four  pages  later,  where 
the  author  says:    "In  the  earlier  periods,    when  poets 
composed  empirically,    the  rarest  minds  welcomed  and 
honored  their  productions  in  the  same  spirit.    But  now, 
if  they  work  in  thin  >vay,  as  many  still  are  fain,  it  must 
be  for  the  tender  heart   of    women  or  the   delight  of 
youth,  since  the   fitter  audience  of  thinkers,  the  most 
elevated  and  eager  spirits,  no  longer  find  sustenance  in 
such  empty  magician's    food.'*      "We  tliink,    also,    that 
Mr.   Stedman  somewhat  overestimates  the  power  of  re- 
cent scientific  development  to  benumb   the   activity  of 
the  eesthotic  element  in  man*    Mr.  Huxley's  shallow  im* 
pertinence  in  regard  to  poetry  has  not  yet,  so  far  as  we 
know,  found  an  echo ;  and  it  is  not  likely  that  a  taste 
inherent  in  the  nature  of  man,  and  inseparate  from  his 
progress,  can  be  even  temporarily  discouraged.    The  ex- 
tent to  which  imaginative  art  depends  upon,  or  is  mod- 
ified by,  the  facts  or  speculations  of  science,  is  still  an 
unsettled  question;  even   Goethe,   in   whom  both    ele- 
ments existed,   found  it  safest  to  hold   them  so  widely 
apart — at  least,  during  his  productive  period — ^that  there 
was  rarely  an  inter-reflection.     Meanwhile,  we  heartily 
agree  with  Mr.  Stedman  that  the  result,  in  spite   of   all 
transitional  struggles,   will  be    "a  fresh  inspiration,  ex- 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  SFEDMAN  291 

pressing  itself  in  new  symbols,  new  imagery  and  beauty 
suggested  by  the  fuller  truth." 

Mr,  Stedman'fl  views  in  regard  to  tho  intellectual 
characteristics  of  our  day,  and  tho  signs  of  a  coming 
reaction  from  tho  present  extreme  of  technical  refine- 
ment, arc  both  new  and  striking,  and  deserve  a  careful 
consideration.  Some  of  these  views  may  have  been  pre- 
eented  before,  but  only  as  scattered  hints  or  specula- 
tions;  no  previous  writer  has  given  a  clear,  compact, 
and  intelligent  survey  of  tho  whole  field.  Each  single 
figure  is  thus  projected  against  tho  same  broad  back- 
ground, and  casts  a  shadow,  more  or  less  distinct,  be- 
yond its  present  achievement.  This  feature  distin- 
guishes the  "Victorian  Poets'*  from  all  other  essays 
in  contemporary  criticism,  and  places  its  author  in  the 
foremost  rank  of  writers,  beside  Mr.  Lowell  and  Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold.  If  he  lacks  the  humor  and  dazzling 
afiiuence  of  illustration  of  the  former,  or  the  exquis- 
itely molded  style  of  the  latter,  he  possesses  qualities 
of  equal  value  in  the  serene,  judicial  temper  of  his  in- 
tellect, and  the  conscientious  severity  which  enables  an 
author  to  subordinate  himself  to  his  theme. 

Djecembeb,  1875. 

n. 

Hawthobne  and  otheb  Poems. — ^Yonng  men,  who 
feel  that  they  are  bom  with  some  natural  gift  of  song, 
and  henoe  glow  with   ambition-  for  a  literary  careeri 


£SSA  ys  AND  NOTEt 

may  learn  a  needful  lesson  from  Mr.  Stedman^    It  is 
just  four  years  since  the  collected  edition  of  his  poems 
was  published)  and  this  volume,  which  contains  all  his 
rhythmical   work  during  that  period,  gives  us   seven- 
teen   original   poems    and    two   translations    from    the 
Greek.    This  is  not,  of  course,  the  measure  of  his  pro- 
ductiveness, were  he  free  to  live    for  his  art    and  to 
obey  every  impulse  of   his  genius;   but  it  illustrates, 
none  the  less,  his  devotion  to  an  ideal  which  prohibits 
all  hasty  or  careless  performance.      It   gives    evidence 
that  no  amount  of  unliterary  drudgery  is  able  to  sup- 
press the  true  poet,  or  even  materially  to  hinder  his  de- 
velopment; for  in  these  last  poems  we  find  the  proof 
of  growth  in  their  broader  grasp  of  thought  and  their 
fuller  music.    Mr.  Stedman  has  not  yet  written  a  poem 
so  evenly  pitched  in  a  lofty  key,  as  his  "Hawthorne." 
It  is,  properly,  an  elegy,  and  suggests  comparison  with 
the  four  other  poems  of  the  same  character  which  have 
their  permanent  places  in  English  literature.    Of  these, 
it   stands   nearest  to  Matthew   Arnold's  "Thyrsis,"  in 
form,  although  the   stanza   has   quite  a  diiferent   bar* 
monic  effect.    The  twelve  lines,  in  the  order  of  rhyme, 
are   simply   the   last   six   of   an  Italian  sonnet,   twice 
given;  but  the  first  and  tenth  lines  have  but  three  feet, 
which  greatly  lightens  the  stanza,  while  the  occasional 
introduction  of  a  feminine  rhyme  increases  its  music. 
The  ear  is  held,  yet  the  measure  never  drops  into  mon* 
otone. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  293 

The  other  poems  in  the  volume  are  of  varying  cliar- 
acter    and    merit.      "Sister    Beatrice"    has    the'  grave, 
sweet,  quaint  character  or  Keats's  "Isabella,"  and  shows 
how  much  the  author  has  gained  in  ease  of  movement 
and   freshness   of  diction   since  the  publication   of    hia 
"Blameless  Prince"     "The   Discoverer,"  "News  from 
Olympia,"  and  "The  Skull  in  the  Gold  Drift,"  are  all 
excellent;  biH  in  "The  Lord's-Day  Gale"  we  find  more 
of  technical  skill  (of  a  very  admirable  character,  indeed), 
than  of    informing    imagination.     Our    sympathies    are 
less  touched  when  they  must  be  divided  among  three- 
score vessels,  then  if  we  saw  but  a  single  foundering 
bark,  and  knew  a  single  person  on  board.    "Clara  Mor- 
ris," a  "Song  from  a  Drama,"  and  "The  Comedian's 
Last  Night,"  are  below  Mr.  Stedman's  true  level    IIow 
gladly  should  we  welcome,  in  their  place,  a  dozen  pages 
more  of  his  stately  and  inspiring  translation  from  ^s* 
chylusl     The  readers  of  the  "Tribune"  will  remember 
the  specimen  given  in  his  article  on  Schliemann's  dis- 
coveries at  MykensB,  nearly  a  year  ago.    This,  and  his 
fine  Homeric  hexameters  from  Book  XI  of  the  Odys- 
sey,  will  increase  the  impatience  of  all  cultured  readers 
for  the  translation  of   the  Idyls   of   Theocritus,  upon 
which,  it  is  understood,  he  has  been  engaged  for  some 
time  past, 

lan. 


JOHN  GEEENLEAF  WHITTIER 

MABEL  MARTDft  A  Harveet  IdyL— Mr.  Whit- 
tier's  Tolume  contains  ''the  stretched  metre **  of 
a  poem  which  appeared  several  years  ago.  We  have 
no  American  ballad-writer— that  is,  writer  of  ballads 
founded  on  our  native  history  and  tradition — who  can 
be  compared  with  him,  either  in  the  range  or  skillful 
treatment  of  his  material  From  the  day,  now  more 
than  thirty  years  ago,  when  he  wrote:— 

*'For  a  pale  hand  waa  beckoning 
The  Huguenot  on. 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 
Behind  was  St.  John.** 

to  his  last  idyl  of  New  England  life^  he  has  rarely 
chosen  a  foreign  theme,  however  seductive,  or  an  an* 
cient  legend,  unless  it  could  be  made  to  embody  some 
aspiration  of  his  large  and  loving  humanity.  No  mat- 
ter how  rude  and  humble  the  characters  he  selects,  they 
never  fail  to  receive  at  his  hands  the  dignity  which 
is  essential  to  legendary  poetry. 


JOHN  GREENLEAP  WHITTIER,  295 

"Mabel  Martin"  is  the  simple  narrative  of  the 
daughter  of  a  lonely  old  woman,  legally  murdered  on 
a  charge  of  witchcraft,  and  bequeathing  to  her  child  a 
heritage  of  disgrace  and  scorn.  Driven  from  the  husk- 
ing-frolic  where  the  girl  sits  alone  and  despised,  she  is 
followed  by  Esek  Harden,  the  host  of  the  festival,  who 
brings  her  back  and  introduces  her  to  the  company  as 
his  betrothed  bride.  That  is  all ;  nor  is  there  the 
slightest  appearance  of  art  in  the  manner  of  telling 
the  story.  The  verse  is  an  iambic  triplet  with  one  lino 
unrliyracd — a  form  too  bare  of  .  music,  were  the  ex- 
pression less  naturally  sweet  and  sincere.  But  it  is  a 
feature  of  Mr.  Whittier's  poetic  genius  that  the  truth 
and  earnestness  of  his  conception  communicate^)  itself  to 
the  reader.  The  ethical  element  is  not  added  in  the 
manner  of  an  ingredient,  as  in  some  2)oets  whom  wo 
would  name:  it  is  an  inherent  part  of  the  author^s  in- 
spiration. This  poem,  therefore,  must  bo  read  and 
judged  as  a  whole;  the  tone  is  of  equal  elevation 
throughout,  and  there  is  scarcely  a  stanza  which  may  be 
fairly  detached,  as  a  specimen  of  the  execution.  In  il- 
lustration of  the  form,  nevertheless,  we  quote  the  fol- 
lowing lines  which  contain  a  picture  of  ""Women 
Friends"  no  less  admirably  ei^ressed  than  literally 
true" 

''Here,  ground-fast  in  their  native  fieldi, 
Untempted  by  the  city^s  gain, 
The  quiet  farmer  folk  remain, 


896  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES.      ; 

Who  bear  the  pleasant  name  of  Frienda, 
And  keep  their  father*!  gentle  ways 
And  sknple  speech  of  Bible  dayt  t 

For  whose  neat  homesteads  woman  holds 
With  modest  ease  her  equal  place. 
And  wears  upon  her  tranquil  face 

The  look  of  one  who^  merging  not 
Her  self-hood  in  another^s  will. 
To  lovers  and  duty^s  handmaid  still  ^ 

BUT,  1876. 


HENEY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

PoBTioAL  Works. — Following  tho  illustrated  editton 
of  Bryant's  complete  poetical  works,  we  have  this 
sumptuous  edition  of  Longfellow*  It  is  an  illustrious 
record  of  his  life's  work,  thus  far;  yet  we  can  still  less 
look  upon  it  as  the  close  of  the  poet's  activity  than  in 
the  case  of  Bryant.  Longfellow,  although  approaching 
liis  seventieth  birthday,  is  twelve  years  younger,  and 
retains,  in  all  their  life  and  fullness,  the  individual 
characteristics  of  his  genius.  He  has  never  written 
lines  more  solemnly  sweet  and  serene  than  his  **Mori« 
turi  Salutamus,"  never  strains  more  instinct  with  airy 
imagination  than  the  choruses  in  his  "Masque  of  Pan- 
dora." The  secret  of  his  youthful  devotion  to  his  art 
does  not  lie  wholly  in  his  intellectual  range  and  rich- 


HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW,  297 

ness5  it  eprings  also  from  the  universality  of  his  senti- 
ment—we  use  the  word  in  its  pnre  and  dignified  sense 
— in  a  wide,  diffused  glow,  which  does  not  rise  to  the 
heat  and  blaze  of  passion,  and  is  so  much  the  more 
permanent.  If  a  great  many  of  his  brief  poems  seem 
like  arrows  shot  at  random  into  the  air,  we  may  be 
sure  that  every  one  of  them  will  somewhere,  or  at 
some  time,  find  its  time  target.  He  never  seems  con- 
sciously to  keep  in  view,  yet  he  never  loses  sight  of, 
his  near  relationship  to  his  fellowmen.  Hence  he  has 
become  a  melodious  voice  for  others,  to  a  greater  ex- 
tent than  any  other  poet  of  this  generation,  not  except- 
ing Tennyson.  In  this  country  he  is  a  pervading,  puri- 
fying and  exalting  influence,  the  operation  of  which 
will  hardly  be  fully  recognized  before  another  genera- 
tion. Yet,  while  such  poems  as  the  "Psahn  of  Life," 
"Resignation,*'  "Excelsior,"  and  many  others,  the  feel- 
ing and  application  whereof  are  universal,  bear  their 
messages  to  all  readers,  they  do  not  represent  his 
highest  poetic  achievement.  In  the  "Occultation  of 
Orion,"  "Prometheus  and  Epimetheus,"  "Palingenesis," 
and  "Chrysaor,"  he  speaks  to  the  finer  intelligence,  and 
attains  his  true  imaginative  individuality.  He  has  been 
widely  and  warmly  praised,  and  now  and  then  petu- 
lantly assailed,  but  has  scarcely  yet  received  the  large 
and  earnest  criticism  to  which  his  genius  and  his  labors 
entitle  him.  Such  a  criticism  must  not  deal  simply 
with   the   technical   oharactonstics   of   his   poetry,  but 


298  MSSA  ys  AND  NOTES. 

mndt  conBider  its  entire  scope  and  tendency.  The 
extent  of  his  popularity  indicates  that  of  his  moral  and 
intellectual  influence,  and  makes  his  life  an  important 
agency  in  the  advancement  of  a  higher  culture  among 
the  American  people. 

1870. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Poetical  Works.  —  The  publishers  have  done  an 
excellent  thing  in  giving  to  the  rapidly-increasing  class 
of  Mr.  Lowell's  readers  this  compact  and  complete  edi- 
tion of  his  poems.  With  the  exception  of  the  Concord 
and  Washington-Elra  Odes,  and  a  few  bits  of  satire 
and  epigram  which  have  been  anonymously  published, 
it  contains  the  entire  poetic  records  of  the  author,  from 
the  appearance  of  his  first  volume,  "A  Year's  Life" 
(in  1841),  to  the  present  time.  The  characteristic  pre- 
face and  burlesque  criticisms  appended  to  the  "Fable 
for  Critics'*  are  retained,  as  well  as  the  correspondence 
and  documents  which  are  not  the  least  important  part 
of  the  "Biglow  Papers."  Mr.  Lowell,  in  reaching  that 
stage  of  publication  which  (to  booksellers  and  book- 
buyers,  at  least)  denotes  permanence  of  literary  fame, 
has  omitted  nothing  and  apparently  changed  nothing. 
He  has  not  endeavored  to  patch  over  early  crudities  or 
extravagances  with  the  better  knowledge  of  his   riper 


JAMES  JiUSSELL  LOWELL,  299 

years,  nor  suppressed  the  utterances  of  feelings  or  opin- 
ions which  ho  may  have  long  since  outgrown.  There- 
fore these  collected  poems,  being  presented  in  chrono- 
logical order,  constitute  the  frankest  possible  biogvaphy 
of  his  poetic  genius.  But  this  will  simply  increase 
their  value  to  all  who  have  learned  to  enjoy  the  depth 
and  earnestness  of  his  conceptions,  the  wayward  -^olian 
music  of  his  lines,  and  the  sportive  quality  of  an  imag- 
ination which  nearly  always  seems  to  be  free  and  exult- 
ing in  its  freedom.  No  one  of  our  poets  shows  a 
richer  or  wider  range  of  thought  than  Mr,  Lowell:  no 
one  a  greater  variety  of  expression  in  verso.  But  what- 
ever form  his  Muse  may  select,  it  is  the  individuality 
of  an  intellect  rather  than  that  of  a  literary  artist 
which  she  represents.  The  reader  is  never  beguiled  by 
studied  graces  of  rhythm;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is 
constantly  refreshed  and  stimulated  by  sudden  glimpses 
of  hights  and  splendors  of  thought  which  seem  to  bo 
revealed  as  much  to  the  poet  as  to  himself.  Lowell 
rises  with  a  swift  wing,  and  can  upbear  himself,  when 
he  pleases,  on  a  steady  one ;  but  his  nature  Bcems  hos- 
tile to  that  quality  which  compels  each  conception  to 
shape  itself  into  clear  symmetry,  and  which  therefore 
limits  the  willful  exercise  of  the  imagination.  He 
seems  to  write  under  a  strong  stress  of  natural  inspira- 
tion, then  to  shrink  from  the  cooler-blooded  labor  of  re- 
vision and  the  adjustment  of  the  rhythmical  expression 
to  the  informing  thought    Hence  he  is  frequently  nn- 


'  I- 


800  ESSAYS  AND  i^OTMS. 

equal,  not  alone  in  separate  poems,  bnt  also  in  diffe^ 
ent  portions  of  the  same  poem.  This  is  much  more 
evident,  however,  in  his  earlier  than  in  his  later  verse. 
Such  poems  as  "In  the  Twilight,'*  "The  Washers  of 
the  Shroud,"  "To  the  Muse,"  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  "Commemoration  Ode"  are  alike  perfect  and  noble. 
In  fact,  the  rcador*8  impatience  with  the  discords, 
which  ho  now  and  then  finds  in  the  oxproBBion  of  pure 
and  oxcoUont  ooncoptionB,  always  takes  a  sympathotio 
character.  ""Why,"  he  involuntarily  asks,  "does  the 
author  neglect  a  completeness  which  were  so  easy  to 
powers  like  his?"  The  line  between  the  conscientious- 
ncHB  of  a  gonius  which  rcHpoots  its  peculiar  individual- 
ity, and  tlio  Indliruroncu  which  dismisses  the  latter 
without  further  care,  is  not  easy  to  draw.  "The  Co- 
thedral"  is,  perhaps,  of  all  Mr.  Lowell's  poem.i,  that 
which  most  clearly  illustrates  his  own  poetic  nature,  and 
in  it  the  guiding  conception  or  "motive"  Is  ahnost  lost 
under  the  wealth  of  imagery  and  the  excursions  of  an 
imagination  which  ranges  free  of  check.  If  we  are 
startled  with  the  idea  of  a  savage  of  the  "age  of  flint" 
gazing  at  frescoes,  wo  are  touched  with  exquisite  sur* 
prise,  when  we  And 

*<Mirror«,  efFaoed  in  their  own  clearness,  send 
Her  only  image  on  through  deepening  deeps 
In  endless  repercussion  of  delight." 

And  if  the  flat  Joke  about  the  "nabitang"  irritates  ns 


N 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  301 

for  a  moment,  we  are  presently  lifted  into  a  lofty  strain 
of  Gothic  enthnsiasm  which  makes  ns  forgive— and 
forget,  Mr,  Lowell  seems  to  have  a  great  respect  for 
the  element  of  caprice,  and  possibly  overlooks  the  fact 
that  the  caprices  in  architecture,  art,  and  literature, 
which  most  charm  the  world,  were  the  offspring  of  de- 
sign. But  he  has  reached  that  point  in  his  literary 
career,  where  a  large  parish  of  believers  is  secured. 
His  recognition  as  a  poet  has  been  undeservedly  slow— 
except  among  the  few  who  lay  the  first  foundations  of 
all  fame — yet  it  finds  him  still  in  the  maturity  of  his 
powers,  and  with  no  youthful  freshness  lost  from  Lis 
voice  of  song. 

1876. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Poetical  Works.  —  The  collected  edition  of  the 
poems  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  is  most  welcome. 
In  looking  over  this  list  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
songs,  ballads,  lyrics,  memorial  verses,  and  poems  of 
welcome  and  farewell,  so  many  of  which  we  remem- 
ber without  any  necessity  of  reperusal,  we  are  struck 
anew  by  the  presence  of  that  prolific  fancy  which 
avoids  monotony,  and  that  freshness  and  heartiness 
of  tone  which  springs  from  a  fountain  lower  than 
the  brain.    We  doubt  whether  any  other  poet  has  done 


802  £:SSAYS  AND  KOTE^ 

80  mnct  toward  lifting  the  "occasional**  into  tie  claa- 
eic.  With  the  exception  of  some  half  dozen  poems  of 
Goethe's  and,  perhaps,  one  of  Campbell's,  Mr.  Holmes 
is  nnrivalled  in  his  power  of  flashing  the  light  of 
higher  thought,  and  the  fragrance  of  lofty  sentiment, 
upon  the  banquet  or  commemorative  meeting.  In  fact, 
this  is  one  of  his  native  gifts,  which  has  been  so  fre- 
quently and  so  delightfully  exercised,  that  it  may  lead 
some  of  his  readers  to  overlook  his  admirable  lyrics, 
wherein  we  find  so  much  earnestness,  subtlety,  or 
sweotness.  His  metrical  essay  on  "Poetry,"  now  more 
than  forty  years  old,  is  the  best  production,  in  that 
class,  in  our  literature;  the  same  thing  may  be  said  of 
his  "Song  of  Other  Days,"  which  always  brought  min* 
gled  fire  and  tears  into  Thackeray's  eyes;  while  in  such 
poems  as  "Musa,"  "The  Crooked  Footpath,"  and  the 
sonnet  "Nearing  the  Snow-Line,"  we  find  the  graver 
note  which  was  necessary  to  make  the  author's  scale  of 
poetic  expression  complete.  There  are  many  tunes  in 
this  music-box  of  a  volume,  and  they  play  readily  in 
answer  to  the  reader's  changing  moods. 

1877. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

.  Later  Poems.— In  "Flower  and  Thorn,"  Mr.  Al* 
drich  has  collected  the  poems  which  he  has  written 
during  the  past  ten  years.    The  exquisite  paper,  print- 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH,  803 

ing,  and  binding  of  the  volume  are  in  perfect  accord 
with  the  taste,  finish,  and  poetical  intelligence  stamped 
upon  every  one  of  its  pages,  "Without  intending  it, 
the  author  has  taught  a  lesson  to  all  his  younger  breth- 
ren throughout  the  country.  If  they  will  learn  to 
study  as  honestly  as  he  how  to  present  their  concep- 
tions purely  and  symmetrically, — how  to  refuse  and  re- 
strain the  native  faculty,  in  guiding  it  steadily  towards 
a  worthier  ideal, — they  may  diminish  the  quantity  of 
their  work,  but  will  surely  increase  the  quality.  Mr, 
Aldrich  gives  us,  in  this  volume,  nothing  that  docs 
not  jtistify  its  existence.  He  has  lost  none  of  his 
early  grace  and  sportive  fancy,  but  they  are  exprc3sed 
in  purer  forms,  and  relieved  against  a  suggested  back- 
ground of  earnest  thought.  His  studies  during  the  past 
years  have  brought  out  more  distinctly  his  poetic  indi- 
viduality, and  added  to  it  an  element  of  strength 
which  was  formerly  wanting.  His  "Quatrains"  only 
hint  of  Landor  in  their  design:  they  are  written  in  a 
different  key.  If  his  are  hard  and  clear-cut  cameos, 
these  are  light,  delicate  figures  from  the  medallions  of 
a  Pompeiian  border. 

After  so  much  earnest  and  melancholy  verso  as  we 
get  nowadays,  to  say  nothing  of  weary  or  stumbling 
lines  and  poetic  ideas  either  stunted  or  overgrown,  it  is 
a  great  relief  to  open  a  volume  like  this,  wherein  the 
poet  truly  comprehends  his  art  Mr.  Aldrich's  instinct 
of  what  be  can  best  do  is  unerring.    His  perception  of 


L 


804  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

beanty,  his  light,  airy  humoif,  and  his  clear  power  of 
observation  are  harmoniouBly  blended  in  bis  poetiy, 
while  now  and  then,  by  a  eubtile  line  or  couplet,  he 
touches  the  deeper  mysteries  of  existence,  assuring  us 
that  his  cheerfulness  is  not  indifferent  nor  his  fancy  su* 
perficiaL  His  individuality  of  style  sets  even  common 
themes  in  a  new  atmosphere,  as  in  "An  Old  Oastle," 
which  is  as  fresh  and  delightful  as  if  old  castles  had 
never  been  sung  before.  In  fact,  there  are  few  pieces 
in  the  book  that  do  not  invite  reperusal:  he  has  the 
gift  of  making  them  companiondUe*  The  sonnets  are 
rather  Italian  than  English  in  their  movement:  that 
commencing  "Enamored  architect  of  airy  rhyme'*  evi- 
dently contains  Mr.  Aldrich's  poetic  confession  of  faith, 
and  its  orthodoxy  will  be  apparent  to  all  thinking 
men,  no  less  than  to  authors,  from  the  concluding 
line: 

"They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  Btriven.** 

1877. 


J.  J.  AND  8.  M.  B.  PIATT. 

Poems,  by  J.  J.  Piatt — No  one  who  reads  Mr. 
Piatt's  volumes  can  doubt  the  justice  of  his  claim  to 
the  title  of  poet.  Ever  since  he  and  Mr.  W.  D.  How- 
ells  published  their  firstlings  of  verse  in  a  single  vol- 
ume, more  than  twenty  years  ago,  he  has  played  upon 


7  7.  ^^^  S,  M.  B.  PIATT.  305 

the  Bame  idyllic  and  elegiac  flute,  only  adding  other 
stops  and  filling  it  with  ampler  breath.  He  was  wise 
enough  to  see  that  the  themes  best  adapted  to  his 
powers  were  precisely  those  which  lay  nearest  to  him ; 
and  he  has  made  himself — if  Ohio  did  but  know  itl 
•—the  poetic  voice  of  Ohio,  The  poems  which  he  has 
discovered  among  the  vanishing  relics  of  first  settle* 
ment,  or  the  scenes  of  home-life  and  country  labor,  are 
those  which  have  made  his  name  known  to  the  English 
critics,  and  procured  him  the  presumptive  fame  of 
translation  into  Gennan,  The  sincerity  of  his  feeling, 
the  refined  and  delicate  quality  of  his  fancy,  the  tender 
touch  of  his  descriptive  talent  and  the  rhythmical  mu- 
sic which  these  demand,  are  sometimes  detached  from 
each  other  in  his  poetry,  but  they  are  almost  always 
united  in  those  pieces  by  which  he  is  best  known. 
"The  Lost  Farm,"  "The  Pioneer's  Chimney,"  "The 
Mower  in  Ohio,"  and  "  Eiding  to  Vote "  are  poems 
which  received  instant  and  general  appreciation;  and 
there  is  no  question  that  if  Mr.  Piatt  had  chosen 
to  write  a  volume  of  ballads  of  country  life,  he  would 
have  made  them  refined,  pathetic,  and  truly  poetical. 
We  regret  that  he  did  not  do  so,  for  he  might  have 
received  much  of  the  popularity  which  has  since  been 
given  to  inferior  work: — ^and,  with  all  his  undoubted 
qualities,  his  poems  are  not,  in  the  ordinary  sense, 
popular.  A  partial  explanation  of  this  fact  is  to  bo 
found  in   the  present   craving   of   readers  for  strong 


L.     I  ' 

800  ksSAVS  AND  NOTES, 

i 

Bpicea,  intense  colors,  and  powerful  odors;  yet  anothe^i   .; 
we  think,  lies  in  a  peculiarity  of  the   author  himself*    *; 
He    seems  to   lack  a  certain  necessary  power  of  self-    \ 
criticism;   he   is   unable  to    distinguish  between   those 
poems  which  simply  express  his  own    personal   moods 
of  thought,  and  those  which  have  a  wider  human  in-    \ 
terest*    This  is  equally  the  case  in  regard  to  the  rela- 
tive value  of  his  fancies.    Many  (we  might  almost  say 
most)    of   his   brief    songs  or   staves    are    as    light   as 
leaves  blown  from  blossoms,  and  will  hardly  last  longer.    ; 
When  collected  in  a    volume,  where    several    of  them 
appear  consecutively,   they   give  a  false    impression   of    ' 
Mr.  Piatt's  poetic  gift  to  one  who  does  not  sit  honcBtly    \ 
down  to  make  his  acquaintance.    The  last  lesson  which 
a  poet  seems  to  learn  is  to  renounce   anything  he  has 
once  written;   and  very  often  on  the  other  hand,  the    i 
public  insists  on   remembering  what  he  would  fain  for-    I 
get.    But  he    who   can    write  such  a  poem   as   "The    \ 
Morning  Street,"  deserves  that  his  native  State,  alone,     , 
should  buy  at  least  one  large  edition  of   his  volumes    \ 
every  year.  \ 


Poems,  by  S.  M.  B.  Piatt.— Mrs.  Piatt  has  written 
very  little  that  is  not  worthy  of  careful  reading.  She 
belongs  to  the  class  of  poets  which  came  into  birth 
with  Mrs.  Browning,  and  includes  (with  differences  in 
both  cases)  Adelaide    Procter   and    Christina   Eossetti; 


y.  y.  AND  s,  Af,  B,  purr.  307 

yet.  bHo  18  perhaps  more  strictly  individual  in  her  work 
than  either  of  these  two.    To  the  class,  Song  seems  to 
carry  with  it  a  peculiar  sanctity:  it  is  oftener  put  on  as 
a  robe  of  sacrifice  than  as  a  festal  garment.    The  strain, 
involuntarily,  becomes  serious  if  not  sad;  and  there  is  a 
drop  of  sacramental  wine  in  the  sweetest  vintage.    But 
as  Mrs.  Piatt  sings,  so  mtist  she  sing;  it  is  impossible 
to    doubt  the  purity,  elevation,  and  utter  sincerity  of 
the    nature  which    breathes    through  her  poems.      'We 
doubt  whether  there  is  a  woman  in  this  country  whoise 
natural  gift  is  finer  or  subtler,  or  who  would  bo  sure 
of  greater  success,  if  she  only  possessed  a  keener  sense 
of  the  concrete  forms   of  poetry.     There   seemfc,  too 
often,  to  be  a  veil  between  her  thought  and  its  expres- 
sion; the  former  is  too  airy  and  intangible  to  inform 
the  latter  with  full  rhythmic  life.    This  springs  partly 
from  the  strong  subjectiveness  of  her  poems,  and  the 
difficulty   of    distinguishing   between   occult   individual 
moods  and  those  which  touch  the  wider  experience  of 
the  race.    Yet,  within  her  range  of  form,  she  is  never 
careless  or  indifferent;  what  she  writes  bears  the  stamp 
of  refinement  and  unstudied  grace.    The  grave  character 
of  the  leading  poems  in  the  volume  before  us: — "That 
New  World,  and  Other  Poems" — gives  an  impression 
of  monotony  which  might  have  been  avoided  by  com- 
mingling the  first  and  second  divisions.    The  third  part, 
entitled  "With  Children,"  is  very  light,  sportive  and 
fanciful.    It  is  interesting  to  find  the  different  sides  of 


308  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

the  poetic  nature  so  carefully  kept  apart,  and  so  rarely 
nnited  in  single  poems,  as  in  Mrs.  Piatt's  case;  and  we 
cannot  but  think  that  if  she  felt  the  responsibility  of 
her  talent  less  gravely,  she  wonld  possess  it  more  com- 
pletely, 

1876. 


EIOHARD  WATSON  GILDEB. 

The  New  Bay,  A  Poem  in  Songs  and  Sonnets.— In 
Mr.  Gilder's  volume  we  have  the  freshness  of  early  ef- 
fort, singularly  combined  with  a  delicate  sense  of  the 
necessary  perfection  of  poetic  form.  With  him  the  fine 
excess,  which  is  characteristic  of  emotion  carried  to  the 
verge  of  passion,  does  not  wholly  attain  to  a  clear  con* 
Bciousness  of  itself;  but  it  is  tempered  by  the  exercise 
of  an  artistic  faculty  almost  precocious,  so  far  as  it  ap-> 
plies  simply  to  the  externals  of  verse.  The  title  of  the 
volume,  and  a  certain  vagueness  in  the  management  of 
its  theme,  suggest  the  Vita  Nxuyva  of  Dante ;  the  dainti- 
ness and  quaintness  of  the  author's  fancy,  which  some- 
times drops  towards  the  boundaries  of  conceit,  and 
never  quite  rises  into  pure  imagination,  have  an  occa- 
cicnal  reflection  of  Dante  Rossetti ;  yet  we  never  lose 
the  impression  of  a  distinct  and  fairly-asserted  individu- 
ality, which  belongs  to  the  author  himself.  Equipped 
with  such  excellent  technical  qualities  as  he  exhibits, 
he  might,  indeed,  have  indulged  in  a  freer  and  bolder 


RICHARD  WA  TSON  GILDER.  309 

strain;  and  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  the  linking 
together  of  detached  poems,  the  connecting  phase  of 
feeling  or  fancy  in  which  is  sometimes  lost,  was  injudi- 
cious on  his  part.  It  can  hardly  be  justified  except  by 
the  use  of  a  tragic,  or  at  least  thoroughly  dramatic  back- 
ground; few  readers  are  patient  to  explore  the  liidden 
relations  of  an  author's  moods,  until  he  is  important 
enough  to  claim  a  permanent  place  in  literature. 

The  volume  is  in  four  parts,  three  whereof  are  intro- 
duced by  "Interludes,"  careful  bits  of  landscape-paint- 
ing, which  have  but  a  dim  relevancy  to  the  succeeding 
sonnets    and   lyrics.    Part  II.  opens  with   two   sonnets, 
"  In  a  Dark  Room,"  which  are  so  far  out   of  keeping 
with  the  serene  sweetness  of  the  remaining  poems,  that 
they  come  upon   us  with  a  disagreeable   shock.     Our 
enjoyment  of  the  volume  is  thus  marred  by  a  suspicion 
of — not  precisely  affectation,   but— over-anxious  design, 
when  the  simple  and  lulling  tenderness  which  breathes 
through  it  might  aa  easily  have  been  left  undisturbed. 
We  are  far  from  underrating  the   technical   excellence 
which    characterizes  the  poetry  of  our  day;  many  in- 
trinsically good  poetic  conceptions  are  made  intolerable 
by  its  absence;  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  limit  the  sense 
of  proportion  to  the  form  alone.    Not  only  the  spirit- 
ual essence — the  idea— of  the  poem  must  partake  of  tha 
same  harmony,  but  the  volume  itself,  where  all  its  parta 
are  presented  as  a  whole,  must  be  sufficiently  plastio  to 
accommodate  itself  folly  to  the  design. 


810  £^S4  YS  AND  NOTES. 

In  this  first  volume  Mr.  Gilder  shows  an  nnnsnal 
capacity  to  elaborate  his  idea,  without  betraying  the 
traces  of  his  labor.'  He  begins  with  a  faculty  in  full 
bloom,  which  usually  buds  much  later — a  literary  con- 
science. He  evidently  tmderstands  the  present  limita* 
tions  of  his  talent,  and  is  content  to  work  within  them, 
waiting  for  what  to-morrow  may  bring  forth.  It  is 
pleasant  to  find  a  new  candidate  for  literary  honors  who 
inspires  us  with  this  confidence,  and  compels  us  to  re- 
verso  the  customary  counsel  of  the  critic;  for  his  sense 
of  art,  in  its  application  to  form,  only  leaves  us  free 
to  suggest  a  wider  liberty,  a  more  unthinking  surrender 
to  the  calls  of  the  Muse. 

Mat.  1876. 


GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

RosK  AKD  Roof-Teek.  —  Mr.  Lathrop  has  already 
appeared  as  a'  poet  in  our  magazines,  but  this  is  his 
first  volume  of  song.  There  is  an  attractive  modesty 
in  its  slight  bulk,  and  the  restrained,  sober  spirit  which 
seems  to  breathe  from  its  pages.  Time  was  when  a 
poet's  first  venture  throbbed  with  the  warm,  impetuous 
blood  of  a  young  inspiration,  and  was  bright  with  the 
reflected  hues  of  other  and  older  bards.  He  appealed 
to  our  interest  through  the  very  frankness  of  his  faults; 
we  do  not  complain  of  Spenser  in  the  young  Keats,  or 


GEORGE  PARSONS  LATffROP,  811 

of  Kfeats  in  the  young  Tennyson.  But  now-a-days  it 
almost  seems  as  if  the  young  poet  were  prematurely 
wise,  concerned  more  for  the  appearance  of  maturity 
than  for  the  keenest  and  sweetest  utterance  of  his 
fresh  conceptions.  Once  we  pictured  him  with  bright 
eyes  and  a  flush  on  his  smooth  cheek,  and  we  could 
hear  the  beating  of  his  eager  heart;  now  he  steps  be^ 
fore  us  with  a  calm  self-possession,  and  endeavors  to 
conceal  whatever  of  artless  spontaneity  may  linger 
about  his  song.  In  the  critical  atmosphere  of  our  time 
the  flame  of  inspiration  loses  something  of  its  former 
wayward  leap  and  sparkle;  in  fact,  it  often  rcHembles 
a  gas-jet,  turned  on  and  regulated  at  the  author's  will. 

This  air  of  maturity  first  strikes  us  in  Mr,  La- 
throp's  poetry,  "We  find  no  hint  of  his  favorite  poets, 
except  perhaps  of  Emerson,  where  the  resemblance  is 
rather  one  of  matter  than  of  manner.  The  structure  of 
the  verse  is  careful,  and  the  measures  generally  slow 
and  grave,  for  even  in  his  "  April  Aria "  and  "  Rune  of 
the  Eain"  there  is  but  little  of  the  dith'yrambio  move- 
ment suggested  by  their  varying  metres.  In  first  poetry 
of  this  character  it  is  not  easy  to  separate  the  elements 
of  culture,  refined  taste,  and  pure  poetic  impulse  which 
are  apparent  in  its  texture,  and  to  estimate  their  rela- 
tive values.  The  defects  of  youth,  which,  no  less  than 
its  merits,  illustrate  the  quality  of  the  talent  are  here 
absent;  and  we  are  also  perplexed  to  know  whether  the 
talent  ia  displayed  at  its  utmost  or  partly  repressed  by 


812  ESSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

an  anxionB  exercise  of  the  critical  faculty.  We  find  the 
chief  evidence  of  youth  in  occasional  conceits  which 
are  quaint  rather  than  fanciful,  as  in  these  lines,  taken 
from  the  opening  poem   which   gives  the  volume  its 

title: 

•*  So»  every  year,  the  sweet  rose  shooteth  higher, 
And  scales  the  roof  upon  its  wings  of  fire, 
And  pricks  the  air,  In  lovely  discontent, 
With  thorns  that  question  still  of  its  intent.** 

The  last  couplet  ends  with  a  repetition  instead  of  a 
rhyme;  and  the  image  is  forced.  The  most  satisfactory 
poem  in  the  volume  is  "The  Silent  Tide,'*  a  story  of 
Kew  England  life,  told  in  blank  verse,  which  adequately 
responds  to  the  sombre  character  of  the  theme. 

Mat,  1870. 


SIDNEY  LANIER. 


Poems. —  Mr.  Lanier^s  dainty  little  volume  contains 
only  ten  poems,  but  they  embody  as  much  character 
and  thought  as  are  usually  found  in  the  first  hundred 
of  a  new  poet.  It  is  impossible  to  read  them  without 
feeling  the  presence  of  a  clear  individuality  in  song, — ^ 
a  nature  free,  opulent,  exquisitely  impressible  to  a  great 
range  of  influences,  melodious  and  daring  almost  to  an 
arbitrary  degi*ee.  Although  the  works  of  other  poets, 
in   passing  through  his   mind,  may  have   given   some 


SIDNEY  LANIER.  313 

tingo  of  coloring,  we  find  no  distinct  trace  of  any  save, 
possibly,  Shakespeare's  sonnets.  In  poetic  aim,  form 
and  choice  of  themes,  Mr,  Lanier  has  expressed  himself 
80  positively  that  he  can  not  be  mistaken  for  any  one 
else.  His  "  Cantata "  for  the  Opening  of  the  Exhibition 
at  Philadelphia,  which  was  written  under  the  hard  re- 
etrictions  imposed  by  music,  is  omitted;  and  those  who 
know  him  only  through  a  work  bo  widely  copied  and  so 
generally  misconceived  should  have  a  new  interest  in 
becoming  acquainted  with  his  purely  poetical  work. 
The  volume  opens  with  the  poem,  entitled  "  Com," — the 
first  new  voice  of  song  which  the  South  has  blown  to 
us  over  the  ashes  of  battle. 

We  find  in  it  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  first  tropi- 
cal burst  of  our  American  Summer.  The  whole  poem, 
in  fact,  throbs  with  sunshine  and  is  musical  with  the 
murmurs  of  growing  things.  It  is  racy  with  the  fullest 
life  of  the  soil,  and  the  verse  undulates  and  ever  puts 
forth  fresh  sprays,  like  an  overfed  vine.  In  "The 
Symphony"  we  find  the  same  qualities,  to  which,  as  in 
the  "  Psalm  of  the  West,*'  a  willful,  capricious  element 
eeems  to  have  been  added.  The  faults  of  both  are  re* 
dundancy,  and  an  apparent  abandon  to  the  starts  and 
bolts,  no  less  than  to  the  speed  of  Fancy.  They  are 
in  singular  contrast  to  the  author's  maturity  of  ideas, 
and  suggest  an  over-richness  of  material,  an  accumula* 
tion  which  has  not  been  relieved  by  earlier  utterances. 
There   is   more   of   the   arabesque    than    the    Grecian 


314  EfSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

frieze  in  these  poems*  Portions  of  them  seem  like  bits 
of  oderiferons  jungloi  where  the  reader  gets  ahnost 
tangled  in  perfume  and  sound.  The  rhymeS)  inevitable 
as  the  most  of  them  seem — for  they  are  all  involved 
in  the  impetuous  movement  of  the  verse— are  some* 
timea  so  frequent  as  to  cloy  the  ear  and  make  the  re- 
pose of  a  simple  couplet  gratefuL  There  are  effects 
which  remind  us  of  the  elaborate  Arabic  meters  of 
Hariri  of  Bosrah.  But  just  such  technical  splendors  of 
poetry  require  the  firmest  hand,  the  finest  ear,  the 
most  delicate  sense  of  Art.  It  is  still  too  soon  to  de- 
cide whether  Mr.  Lanici'^s  true  course  is  to  train  or 
carefully  prune  this  luxuriance.  Meanwhile  we  heartily 
give  him  welcome,  and  congratulate  his  native  South 
on  a  new  poet. 

1877. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


Poems.— We  are  carried  back  to  a  past  which,  al- 
though in  reality  near,  seems  very  remote  to  our  con- 
sciousness, as  we  turn  the  pages  of  this  edition  of  the 
collected  poems  of  George  D.  Prentice.  It  is  only  six^ 
years  since .  the  author  died ;  it  is  hardly  sixteen  since 
his  "Closing  Year"  reappeared  in  many  newspapers  on 
everv  thirty-first  of  December.  Yet,  as  we  turn  back 
to  half-remembered  poems  and  recall  their  former  ca^ 


GEORGE  />.  PRENTICE,  315 

rency,— aa  we  liear  accents  which  are  already  begin- 
ning to  sound  strange  to  our  ears,  and  scan  with  a  sud- 
den wonder  forms  of  poetic  expression  once  so  welcome 
and  familiar,  the  great  guK  between  free,  self-asserting 
poetic  genius,  and  poetic  taste  of  even  a  very  lofty  and 
genuine  character,  is  once  more  suggested.  We  do  not 
know  that  Mr.  Prentice  ever  claimed  the  title  of  poet; 
it  was  rather  forced  upon  him  by  the  many  personal 
friends  who  heard  in  his  verse  the  expression  of  the 
ardent,  sir  cere,  generous  nature  they  loved.  He  never 
seemed  to  care  especially — at  least,  not  with  the  absorb- 
ing fondness  and  jealousy  of  the  poets  who  feel  their 
consecration — for  the  lyrics,  in  which  the  music  of  hie 
emotions,  rather  than  of  his  intellect  or  imagination, 
made  itself  heard.  "We  can  not  judge  him,  therefore, 
according  to  the  standard  of  artistic  achievement;  we 
must  simply  ask  what  he  designed,  and  how  far  he  has 
been  successful  therein. 

The  first  literary  friend  of  Mr.  Prentice  was  John 
G.  C.  Brainard,  a  Connecticut  poet,  who  is  now  remem- 
bered by  two  graceful  little  lyrics,  and  the  fom\er 
never  varied  the  strain  which  he  learned  in  his  youth. 
He  sprang  from  the  time  when  the  influence  of  Mrs. 
Hemans  was  beginning  to  supersede  that  of  Byron  on 
the  young  generation, — when  Kirk  White's  poems  and 
PoUok'a  "Course  of  Time"  were  considered  classic,  and 
Young's  "Night  Thoughts"  was  still  devoutly  read. 
At  such  a  time,  a  poem  like  "The  Gosing  Year"  was 


816  J^sii  YS  AND  NOTES. 

Buro  of  an  enthnsiastio  welcome ;  nor  can  we  denj  to  it 
now,  tbo  rigor  and  oloquonco  of  an  exalted  mood.  It 
is  almoBt  free  from*  the  fault  of  his  other  blank  Terse 
poems, — a  semi-prose  construction,  with  the  ccesural 
pause  at  the  end  of  a  foot,  where  it  is  not  at  the  end 
of  the  lino.  Without  originality  of  idea  or  expression, 
the  earnest  stamp  of  the  author*s  nature  gave  a  certain 
dignity  to  his  verse,  especially  as  he  evidently  never 
turned  to  it  as  a  field  of  ambition,  but  simply  for  the 
relieving  utterance  of  feelings  which  must  otherwiso 
have  remained  unspoken. 

Take  a  single  stanza  from  one  of  the  most  popular 
of  Mr.  Prentice's  poems,  "At  my  Mother's  Grave": 

"Oft  from  life*!  withered  bower, 
In  itill  communion  with  the  Pout,  I  turn, 
And  mtiMo  on  thco,  iho  only  flower 
In  Memory's  urn.** 

Here  we  have  the  phraseology  of  a  fashion  in  poo- 
try  which  has  long  since  passed  away.  But  one  of  his 
poems,  written  in  the  same  mea-^ure,  "  Elegiac,"  on  the 
graves  of  the  Union  soldiers  buried  in  Cave  Hill  Oem* 
etery,  Louisville,  is  marked  by  a  simplicity  and  solem* 
nity  which  are  much  more  effective: 

"Yonder,  a  little  way, 
Where  mounds  rise  thick  like  surges  on  the  sea. 
Those  whom  ye  met  in  fierce  array 
Sleep  dreamlessly. 


GEORGE  D,  PRENTICE,  817 

The  same  soft  breezes  sing, 
The  same  birds  chant  their  spirit-requiem, 

The  same  sad  flowers  their  fragrance  fling 
O'er  you  and  them. 

And  pilgrims  oft  will  grieve 
Alike  o'er  Northern  and  o'er  Southern  dust. 
And  both  to  God's  great  mercy  leave 
In  equal  trust." 

The  volume  is  a  welcome  Bonyenir,  not  only  to  the 
many  personal  friends  of  the  author,  but  to  the  many 
more  who  only  know  him  through  the  work  of  his  life. 
The  interest  of  his  poems  does  not  depend  upon  the 
estimate  which  we  may  attach  to  his  poetic  talent.  Mr. 
Piatt's  introductory  biography  is  written  in  a  loving 
and  warmly  appreciative  spirit,  and  gives  a  veiy  satis- 
factory outline  of  Mr.  Prentice's  literaxy  life. 

Mat.  1876. 


THE  RIGHT  HON.  THE  MARQUIS  OF  LORNE. 

aXJIDO  Ain)  LiTA. — ^We  are  confronted,  here,  with 
a  moet  noble  neophite,  the  son-in-law  of  a  Qaeen. 
But  there  is  no  royal  or  patrician  road  to  success  in 
the  democratic  realm  of  Song.  The  "Right  Hon.  the 
Marquis '*  must  take  his  place  beside  the  farmer's  boy 
and  the  young  cotton-spinner,  and  no  heraldic  shield 
shall  blunt  for  him  the  critic's  arrows.  "Guido  and 
Lita''  is  more  decidedly  a  continuance  of  a  past  fashion 
in  literature  than  anything  in  Mr.  Prentice's  volume, 
for  we  can  not  say  that  any  lyrical  form  really  becomes 
obsolete,  and  there  are  few  of  Mr.  Prentice's  lyrics 
which  do  not  express  a  hearty  sincerity  of  feeling.  In 
the  Marquis  of  Lome's  poem  we  find  the  form  of  By- 
ron's "Corsair"  without  its  fiery  rhythm,  and  the  slow 
movement  of  Crabbe  without  his  fine  and  delicate  paint* 
ing  of  details.  Neither  is  the  heroic  couplet,  so  fre- 
quently used  for  epic  narrative,  an  outworn  meter;  it  is 
the  mode  generally,  of  expressing  thought,  the  character 
of  diction  and  style  in  which  the  past  fashion  is  revived. 
Take  for  example,  the  second  stanza  of  the  poem: 


THE  RIGHT  HON,   THE  MARQUIS  OF  LORHE,    819 

"Here  every  slope,  and  intervening  dale,  ^         ♦ 

Yields  a  sweet  fragrance  to  the  passing  gale,  , 

From  the  thick  woods,  where  dark  caronbas  twine 
Their  massive  verdure  with  the  hardier  pine  ; 
And,  ^mid  the  rocks,  or  hid  in  hollowed  cave, 
The  fern  and  iris  in  profusion  wave. 
From  countless  terraces,  where  olives  rise, 

.    XJnchilled  by  autumn^s  blast,  or  wintry  skies, 
And  round  the  stems,  within  the  dusky  shade, 
The  red  anemones  their  home  have  made  ; 
From  gardens,  where  its  breath  forever  blows 
Through  myrtle  thickets,  and  their  wrcathi  of  rose/' 

if  these  lines  had  been  published  a  hundred  years 
ago,  they  might  have  secured  the  author  a  certain 
amount  of  poetic  fame,  Horace  Walpole  would  have 
admired  them,  and  Dr.  Johnson  would  have  accepted 
them  with  only  a  moderate  growl.  There  is  no  word 
or  descriptive  feature  in  them  which  is  at  variance 
with  the  taste  of  that  day;  and  the  same  level  of  an- 
tiquated  Te^pectability  is  maintained  throughout  the 
whole  poem.  It  is  the  work  of  a  man  of  conventional 
culture,  of  refined  but  rigidly  circumscribed  tastes,  and 
imbued  with  a  great  reverence  for  old,  accepted  and 
therefore  proper  models  in  literature.  He  might  as 
easily  have  left  the  poem  unwritten ;  but  having  deter« 
mined  to  write  a  poem,  it  must  needs  possess  the 
quiet  reserve  of  the  society  in  which  he  habitually 
moves.  We  do  not  doubt  that  he  has  made  the  best 
possible  use  of    his   natural    gifts;  and,    indeed,  there 


820  £SlSAyS  AJ^D  NOTES. 

seems  to  be  a  spark  smouldering  tinder  the  coronet,  and 
flickering  dimly  in  such  stanzas  as  these  on  the  theme 
of  "Noble  Name8,V  where  the  accepted  motto  of  no* 
hlesse  oblige  allows  hib  thought  a  little  freedom! 

"  *Tis  a  precious  heritage  t 

Next  to  love  of  God,  a  might 
That  should  plant  thy  foot,  where  stood 
Of  thy  race  the  great  and  good, 
All  thine  age  t 

"Yet  remember  I  His  a  crown 

That  can  hardly  be  thine  own. 
Till  thou  win  it  by  some  deed 
That  with  glory  fresh  shall  feed 
Their  renown  t 

"Pride  of  lineage,  pomp  of  powcr» 
Heap  dishonor  on  the  drone* 
Be  shall  lose  his  strength,  who  neTer 
Uses  it  for  fair  endeavor } 
Brief  his  hour  I »» 

Par  be  it  from  us  to  deny  such  "fair  endeavor**  to 
the  Marquis  of  Lomet  The  heir  to  a  dukedom  braves 
some  prejudice  in  his  own  class  when  he  enters  the 
arena  of  letters:  though  not  hampered  by  the  usual  re- 
strictions of  the  poet,  he  is  subject  to  other  and  possi* 
bly  severer  ones.  His  ambition,  therefore,  includes  a 
quality  of  courage  which  we  must  respect.  The  old 
Bothschild  was  in   the  habit  of  introducing  a  relative 


WILLIAM  MORRIS.  821 

of  his,  who  was  a  composer,  to  his  Plutocratic  guests 
with  tho  words :  "  He  composes  music,  but,  thank  God, 
not  from  necessity!"  We  are  very  sure  that  the  intel- 
ligent  and  high-minded  Duke  of  Argyle  would  be  very 
proud  to  present  the  Marquis  of  Lome  as :  "  My  son 
—the  poet  I "  and  we  are  sincerely  sorry  that  we  see 
no  likelihood — ^judging  from  the  indications  given  in  the 
present  volume — ^that  he  will  ever  be  able  to  do  it. 

Mat,  1876. 


WILLIAM  MOKRIS. 


The  Story  of  Sigurd  the  Yolsuno,  and  the  Fall 
OF  THE  NiBLUNos. — ^Whatever  qualities  Mr,  Morris  may 
lack,  as  a  singer,  scantness  of  breath  is  not  one  of 
them.  He  apparently  takes  such  delight  in  the  sound 
of  his  own  chanting  that  he  begins  with  great  gladness 
and  is  ever  more  and  more  reluctant  to  leave  off.  Ho 
is  fast  becoming  as  interminable  as  the  Eddas  from 
which  he  draws  his  themes.  In  this  story  of  Sigurd 
the  Volsung  we  have  the  whole  saga-cycle  of  the  myth- 
ical Northern  hero,  fused  and  recast  into  an  epic  of  ten 
thousand  lilting  alexandrines.  It  makes  its  appearance 
a  little  more  than  six  months  after  the  same  author's 
translation  of  <Hhe  JSneids"  was  published,  and  al- 
though the  whole  of  this  poem  was  probably  not  writ- 
ten in  the  mean  time,  yet  it  is  quite  possible.     The 


322  /Assays  and  notes. 

flow  of  Mr.  Morris's  narrative  verse,  in  which  we  once 
seemed  to  discover  the  result  of  stndy  and  skill,  is  evi- 
dently a  large  natural  gift,  which  acquires  fresh  activity 
and  power  from  use.  It  is  not  so  many  years  since 
many  critics  declared  that  the  age  of  epic  narrative 
waa  over  forever;  that  poems,  to  be  popular,  must  bo 
brief;  that  the  novel  had  superseded  the  metrical  ro- 
mance. The  fact  that  Tennyson  broke  up  his  Arthu- 
rian epic  into  idyls  was  considered  sufficient  proof  of 
the  change.  Nay,  did  not  Mr.  Morris,  himself,  in  his 
"Earthly  Paradise,"  add  another  illustration? 

Turning  to  the  latter  work,  now,  we  see  that  the 
author  was  gradually  testing  his  public.  His  stories 
grew  in  length  as  they  increased  in  number,  until  in 
"Gudrun*'  the  tnie  epic  proportion  was  very  nearly  at- 
tained. Readers,  having  once  fully  breathed  the  soft, 
narcotic  atmosphere  of  his  verse,  listened  on  and  on 
and  were  never  weary.  They  absorbed  the  pervading 
spirit  of  the  poems,  and  remembered  them  as  wholes, 
rather  than  through  detached  lines  or  passages.  This  is 
no  slight  triumph  for  a  poet,  and  it  defines  Mr.  Morris's 
exceptional  place  in  literature.  Scarcely  a  line  of  the 
"Earthly  Paradise"  has  become  a  current  quotation: 
very  few  of  its  many  readers  are  able  to  repeat  any 
portion  of  what  they  most  admire;  yet  it  continues  to 
draw  and  bind  them  with  a  singular  glamour.  The 
bulk  of  "  Sigurd  the  Yolsung "  will  not  alarm  them : 
the  monotonous  march  of  the  alexandrines  will  not  pall 


WILLIAM  MOHRIS,  323 

npon  their  ears;  the  recurrence  of  situations  and  de- 
scriptions, as  in  tlie  original  sagas,  will  only  high  ten 
their  enjoyment  in  the  poem.  This  is  so  certain  that 
we  cannot  call  the  epic  an  experiment. 

In  none  of  his  previous  works  has  Mr,  Morris  shown 
greater  literary  skill.  He  gives  us  his  art  at  its  best, 
so  clear  and  unincumbered  that  we  have  no  diflSculty  in 
estimating  its  power  or  quality.  Both  subject  and 
meter  aro  admirably  chosen  and  fitted  to  each  other. 
The  former,  familiar  to  German  Literature  for  a  cen- 
tury past,  is  just  beginning  to  be  known  in  ours?  the 
main  features  of  the  saga  have  been  employed  by  "Wag- 
ner, who  introduces  Sigmund,  Sigurd  (or  Siegfried),  and 
Brynhilde  through  the  postern  of  music  to  the  temple 
of  Song  wherein  Mr,  Morris  now  installs  them.  The 
meter,  although  not  original,  is  originally  treated,  a6 
will  be  seen  from  the  opening  lines; 

"  There  was  a  dwelling  of  Kings  ere  the  world  was  waxen  old ; 
Dukes  were  the  door-wards  there,  and  the  roofs  were  thatched 

with  gold ; 
Earls  were  the  wrights  that  wrought  it,  and  silver  nailed  its 

doors : 
Earls*  wives  were  the  weaving-women,  queens*  daughters  strewed 

its  floors, 
And  the  masters  of  its  song-craft  were  the  mightiest  men  that  cast 
The  sails  of  the  storm  of  battle  adown  the  bickering  blast. 
There  dwelt  men  merry-hearted,  and  in  hope  exceeding  great 
Het  the  good  days  and  ^e  evil  as  they  went  the  way  of  fate  i 


824  MSSAVS  AND  NOTES. 

There  the  Ood»  wete  unforgotien,  yea  whilet  they  walked  with   * 

men, 
Though  e^en  in  the  world^s  beghining  rose  a  tnurtnur  now  and 

again 
Of  the  midward  time  and  the  fading  and  the  last  of  the  latter 

days, 
And  the  entering  in  of  the  terror,  and  the  death  of  the  People's 

Praise/' 

The  peculiar  chaitieter  of  these  atexandrines  Bprings 
from  the  use  of  alliteration,  aa  in  the  old  saga-measure) 
and  the  introduction  of  an  anapeestic  foot  into  each 
member  of  the  line.  If  the  verse  sometimes  falls  into 
too  much  of  a  skipping  movement,  it  never  becomes 
ponderous,  and  even  the  gloomy  scenes  of  the  tragedy 
are  lightened  by  the  natural  joyousness  of  its  music. 
It  is  singular  that  while  there  is  so  little  sunshine  in 
Mr.  Morris's  poems  drawn  from  Greek  sources,  the  stem 
Gothic  legend,  breathing  of  Northern  mist  and  cold, 
should  so  sparkle  with  light  and  color.  He  has  found 
a  new  atmosphere.  The  sad  and  often  languid  tone  of 
his  previous  poetry  has  ceased,  and  We  hear,  instead, 
the  sound  of  a  horn  which  the  breezes  love  to  carry 
and  the  echoes  to  repeat.  It  is  impossible  to  read  any 
page  of  the  poem  without  perceiving  some  touch  which^ 
indicates  the  accomplished  artist.  In  the  changing  pic- 
tures, each  tint  or  tone  is  given  with  the  ease  and  cer- 
tainty of  a  hand  that  knows  no  further  technical  diffi- 
culty. 


WILUAM  MORRIS,  325 

The  execution  is  kept  at  very  nearly  the  same' level 
throughout ;  the  alliteration,  delightfully  managed  in  any 
single  passage  that  may  be  selected,  becomes  monoto- 
nous and  droning;  and  the  Homeric  repetition  of  adjec- 
tives and  phnises  finely  wears  out  their  freshness.  We 
can  neither  forget  the  Norse  saga  nor  the  Nibelungen 
Lay,  and  must  involuntarily,  as  we  read,  contrast  their 
bare,  rugged,  tragic  simplicity  with  the  amazing  liter-^ 
ary  opulence  which  Mr.  Morris  has  lavished  upon  the 
story.  Indeed,  much  of  his  work  may  be  called  illu- 
mination rather  than  painting.  lie  writes  as  if  with 
Gothic  letters  on  emblazoned  vellum.  The  action  con- 
tinually loses  itself  in  the  description:  the  simplest 
scenes  are  so  carefully  wrought  that  there  is  no  surplus 
left  for  the  supremo  situations,  and  therefore  the 
awakening  of  Brynliilde  or  the  death  of  Sigurd  makes 
less  impression  upon  us  than  many  of  the  unimportant 
episodes.  Sigurd  first  appears  in  the  second  Book,  and 
dies  in  the  third,  but  the  story  goes  on  through  a 
fourth  Book,  to  include  the  slaying  of  the  Niblungs  in 
the  hall  of  Atli,  as  in  the  Nihelungerdied, 

There  was  no  necessity  for  giving  the  whole  group 
of  related  legends,  unless  Mr.  Moms  had  respected 
their  original  forms.  This  he  has  not  done,  although 
his  variations  are  few  and  skillfully  made.  The  forging 
of  the  Bword,  the  slaying  of  Fafnir,  the  wooing  of 
Brynhilde,  the  treachery  of  Chriemhild,  the  Niblung 
treasure,  and  all  other  large,  characteristio  features  of 


ssJ 


826  ESSAYS  AND  I^OTES. 

the  stoiy  are  retained;  but  they  are  presented  with  so 
much  illustrative  detail  that  the  action  resembles  the 
movement  of  shadows  on  a  painted  walL  A  poem  of 
half  the  length,  beginning  and  ending  with  the  hero 
Sigurd,  and  marked  by  the  singer's  restraint  no  less 
than  by  his  indulgence  in  his  gifts,  would  have  been  a 
greater  work.  He  has  large  lungs,  as  we  have  said,  yet 
the  duration,  the  eostenuto  of  a  voice,  seems  to  us  less 
important  than  its  sympathetic  quality.  We  have  read 
the  story  of  Sigurd  the  Yolsung  with  continually  re- 
newed surprise,  and  an  admiration  which  at  last  became 
a  little  jaded  from  the  similarity  of  the  effects  em- 
ployed. At  the  close,  we  can  not  remember  having  ex- 
perienced a  single  impulsion  to  love  or  hate,  to  fear  or 
grieve  or  shudder;  and  we  feel  that  the  author's  chief 
delight  in  his  own  creation  springs  from  its  technical 
perfection.. 

1876. 


LOED  HOUGHTON. 

(RiOHABO  MoNOKTON  MlLKBS.) 

Poetical  "Wobks. — ^Lord  Houghton  is  a  very  marked 
and  interesting  example  of  a  class,  probably  not  so  small 
as  is  generally  imagined,  who,  favored  by  external  for-    . 
tune,   have  too  much  positive  talent  and  character  to 


LOUD  HOUGHTON.  327 

be  confounded  with  the  foi-tiinato  who  enjoy  life  and 
pass  away,    and  too  little    necessity   for  higher  aspira- 
tion and   exertion  to   become    all    of    which    they    are 
capable.    As  a  statesman,  as  an  author,  as  a  man,  he 
is  entitled  to  high  respect;  for  he  has  recognized  from 
the  first  both  the  measure  of  his  talent  and  the  duties 
which  it  imposed  upon  him.     The  latter  ho   has  con- 
scientiously fulfilled;  and  if  we  weigh  so  much  desert 
with  the  temptations  to  ease,  indolence  and  indifference 
which  lie  has  nobly  resisted,    wo    shall  not  hesitate  a 
moment  in  our  estimate  of  his  character.     This  is  not 
necessarily  a  factor  in  our  estimate  of  his  literary  merit; 
yet,  inasmuch  as  success  in  literature  requires  the  pres- 
ence of  ethical  no  less  than  of  intellectual  qualities,  wo 
must  fairly  allow  its  value.    There  is  an  important  dif- 
ference between  the  impression  which  a  man  makes  who 
has  avowedly  done  the  utmost  of  which  he  is  capable, 
and  that  which   springs  from  the  exercise  of  genuine 
gifts,  not  so  stimulated  to  their  highest  development.    • 
So  judged,  no  one  can  deny  an  inborn  voice  of  song 
to  Lord  Houghton.     His  poetical  activity  began  wlicn 
"Wordsworth    was    first    recognized   as  a  great    English 
poet,  when  there  was  a  growing  reaction    against  the 
adoration  of  Byron,  and  when  the  most  popular  lyrist 
in    England   was — Mrs,  HemansI     Yet  in   his   earliest 
verse  we  find  but  very^  faint  reflections  of  two  of  these 
authors.    If ,  in  his  graver  and  more  thoughtful  poems, 
he  seems  to  have  caught  an  occasional  tone  from  Words* 


828  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

'ffrortb,  or  in  his  Bentiment  a  softer  cadence  from  Mrs. 
HemanB,  we  shall  find,  on  explaining  the  complete  po- 
etical records  of  his  life,  that  snch  resemblances  are  in« 
evitable,  because  springing  from  congenital  features  of 
his  own  poetic  nature.  He  seems  to  stand  —  if  on  a 
lower  plane —^  somewhere  between  Byron  and  Words- 
worth: that  is,  in  making  a  specific  classification  of 
poets,  we  must  refer  him  to  an  intermediate  variety. 
The  simple,  frank,  unambitious  character  of  most  of 
his  poetry  is  a  feature  which  must  not  be  overlooked 
in  these  days.  If  he  has  not  achieved  the  highest,  he 
never  seems  to  have  aspired  to  it.  We  find,  in  regard 
to  this  point,  a  passage  in  his  preface  to  the  present 
edition,  so  admirably  and  sensibly  said,  that  we  can  not 
forbear  quoting  it  j 

'^I  have  sometimes  thought  that  I  should  like  to 
review  my  own  poems,  as  I  have  done  those  of  others, 
conscious  that  the  distances  of  time  and  the  alterations 
of  temperament  qualify  me  to  do  so  with  perfect  im- 
partiality: but  if  I  do  not  do  this,  I  think  I  can  judge 
them  so  far  as  to  see  that,  whatever  little  hold  they 
may  have  taken  on  their  time  is  owing  to  their  sincer- 
ity of  thought  and  simplicity  of  expression.'* 

Nothing  can  be  truer  than  thist  and  we  may  assume 
that  an  author,  who  so  well  understands  the  secret  of 
whatever  value  he  may  have  acquired  in  the  literature 
of  his  country,  has  always  honestly  exercised  his  pecu- 
liar gift.     This  is  no  doubt  the  secret  of  the  clear  indi- 


LORD  HOUGHTON.  829 

viduality  wliich  stamps  Lord  Houghton's  poems,  even 
where  subject  and  style  are  such  as  another  poet  might 
have  chosen.  Take,  for  example,  the  universally-known 
song:  "I. Wandered  by  the  Brook-side."  It  is  simple  as 
"Wordsworth;  yet  it  is  not  Wordsworth,  It  is  tender 
as  Hood;  yet  it  is  not  Hood.  We  may  run  through 
the  list  of  contemporary  poets,  and  find  no  one  to 
whose  pen  wo  should  attribute  it.  So  of  the  lyric  en- 
titled: "Strangers  Yet,"  and  many  others  which  are 
characterized  by  equal  sweetness  of  rhythm  and  gentle 
grace  of  fancy.  His  "Poems  of  Sentiment  and  Reflec- 
tion" abound  in  passages  of  admirable  purity  and 
strength:  there  are  stanzas,  quatrains  and  couplets  so 
complete  that  few  poets  would  be  unwilling  to  father 
them  or  their  like.  Witness  the  following,  in  his  poem, 
**The  Men  of  Old": 

**  Blending  their  souls*  sublimest  needs 

With  tasks  of  every  day, 
They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds, 

Like  noble  boys  at  play." 

Or  this  stanza: 

**A  man^s  best  things  are  nearest  him, 
Lie  close  about  his  feet ; 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 
That  wo  are  sick  to  greet : 
For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 

We  struggle  and  aspire,— 
Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 
The  air  of  fresh  Desire." 


830  £S^YS  AND  NOTES. 

,  All  Plutarch  seemg  to  be  compressed  into  the  first 
of  these  quotations:  the  same  thought  was  never  before 
BO  sweetly  and  concisely  expressed.  The  second  is  not 
fiew  in  substance,  yet  it  is  new  in  manner, — and  it  is  a 
great  comfort  amid  the  flood  of  platitude  which  whelms 
every  generation  in  turn,  to  find  something  so  freshly 
said*  In  such  an  extensive  collection  of  poems  there  is, 
of  course,  much  inequality  of  merit;  but  the  careful 
reader  will  find  that  the  lyrics  and  songs  which  are 
most  widely  known  are  by  no  means  the  height  of  the 
author's  achievement.  They  have  merely  touched  some 
responsive  chord  in  the  popular  sentiment.  We  find 
throughout,  the  evidence  of  an  honestly-felt  necessity 
of  utterance,  without  much  regard  for  the  question 
whether  the  thought  expressed  may  have  equal  value 
for  the  reader.  This,  however,  implies  the  absence  of 
conscious  seeking  for  popularity,  even  as  we  find  in  the 
poems  no  reflection  of  any  fashion  which  has  become 
temporarily  popular  in  Lord  Houghton's  dayi 

Januaut,  1877* 


OimiSTINA  ROSSETTI. 

Poems. — ^Mlss  Rossetti  has  already  won  her  place  in 
modem  English  poetry,  and  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
examine  her  claims   to  it.     In  the  estimate  of  most 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTL  831 

readers  she  is  placed  beside  Jean  Ingelow;  in  that  of 
a  considerable  number,  above  the  latter.  Yet  she  is 
undoubtedly  inferior  to  Jean  Ingelow  in  brilliancy  of 
rhetoric,  rhythmical  movement  and  a  certain  intensity 
and  vividness  of  apprehension. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  is  simpler,  more  natural  and 
unstudied,  more  naively  direct  in  her  appeals  to  senti- 
ment and  feeling,  and  more  purely  devotional  in  her 
nature.  Herein  lies,  we  suspect,  the  secret  of  her  popu- 
larity. Many  of  her  poems  are  redeemed  from  being 
childish  only  because  we  feel  that  their  quaint  simplic- 
ity is  so  sincere.  She  has  written  nothing — indeed,  she 
could  not  write  anything — so  compact  and  dramatic  as 
Jean  Ingelow's  "  High  Tide  in  Lincolnshire ; "  but 
neither  could  the  latter,  with  all  her  art,  write  such 
poems. a{.  Miss  Kossetti's  "Days  of  Yanity"  and  "Mar- 
tyr's Song."  Both  are  alike  in  the  subdued,  semi- 
mournful  key  of  song  which  they  prefer;  and  equally 
alike  in  the  light,  joyous,  sparkling  measures  to  which 
they  sometimes  rise.  "We  only  compare  them  for  the 
sake  of  illustration:  the  reader  will  set  this  or  that 
higher,  according  to  the  taste  which  is  bom  of  his  spir- 
itual temperament,  Wo  should  certainly  place  Miss 
Rossetti  among  the  first  of  Mrs.  Browning's  successors. 
But  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  those  of  her 
poems  which  are  bom  of  transient  and  perhaps  not 
wholly  conscious  moods  of  thought,  and  those  which  are 
made  distinct  by  some  external  theme.    In  "  Twilight 


882  ESSAYS  AHD  NOTS& 

Calm/'  for  inBtanoe,  eke  givefl  ub  a  Boft|  restful,  beanti* 
ful  picture,  while  in  "Sleep  at  8ea''  and  other  poems 
of  the  class,  we  seetn  to  be  gazing  upon  a  dissolring 
view,  every  feature  of  which  changes  or  vanishes  just 
as  wo  seem  about  to  hold  it.  Poetry  of  this  character 
may  serve  as  an  echo  to  fancies  or  cravings  equally 
vague  and  unformed:  but  it  can  never  permanently  be- 
long to  literature.  Miss  Rossetti's  volumes  of  verse 
have  attained  a  wide  popularity,  yet  we  can  not  recall 
any  single  poem  of  hers  that  is  universally  known  and 
quoted. 

jANUAftY,  1877. 


•    GERMAN  HYMNOLOGY. 

THE  Christian  Singers  of  Germant,  by  Catherine 
"Winkworth. — The  literature  of  Germany  is  espe- 
cially rich  in  religious  poetry,  but  this,  so  far  as  xve 
are  aware,  is  the  first  attempt  to  give  in  English  an  his- 
torical sketch  of  its  growth,  and  its  connection  with 
German  Literature  on  the  one  hand,  and  German  His- 
tory on  the  other.  It  is  based  on  the  works  of  Wacker- 
nagel  and  Koch,  neither  of  which,  on  account  of  their 
great  research  and  amount  of  detail,  would  be  so  inter- 
esting to  the  English  reader  as  this  comparatively  brief 
and  well-executed  history.  Mrs.  "Winkworth  is  entitled 
to  the  credit  of  having  produced  much  more  than  a 
compilation;  she  has  recast  the  material  in  a  simpler 
form,  and  added  illustrations  drawn  from  other  quarters, 
which  give  her  volume  a  completeness  and  value  of  its 
own.  To  that  clear  knowledge  of  the  subject  which 
comes  from  patient  and  conscientious  reading,  she  adds 
a  thorough  appreciation  of  the  grand,  sturdy  piety  of 
the  German  hymn-writers,  and  the  services  which  they 
have   rendered  to   Protestant   religion   in  other  lands. 


834  £SSAYS   AND    NOTES. 

"We  do  not  fully  agree  with  her  view,  that  it  was  the 
national  character  of  the  English  Eeformation  which 
prevented  their  hymns  from  being  known  in  England 
until  Charles  TVesley  translated  and  imitated  them:  it 
"was  rather,  we  think,  the  form  of  the  prevalent  Eng- 
lish worship.  The  Wesleys  may  be  said  to  have  first 
taught  a  portion  of  the  English  people  that  hearty  de- 
light in  sacred  singing  which  has  always  been  a  char- 
acteristic of  the  whole  German  race.  "We  must  under- 
stand this  delight  in  order  adequately  to  measure  the 
importance  of  the  German  hymns.  Our  admiration  of 
Luther's  noble  choral,  ^^  Eiru  feste  Burg^^  is  cold  and 
sjilritless,  compared  with  the  fire  and  strength  which  it 
gave  to  the  German  people  in  its  day.  Few  of  the 
early  English  Reformers  sang  as  well  as  they  preached; 
and,  even  if  they  had,  their  songs  would  have  had  a 
more  impassive  audience. 

The  hymns  of  Germany,  arranged  according  to  the 
periods  of  their  production,  indicate  the  great  historical 
movements,  which  have  shaped  the  destiny  of  the  peo- 
pie.  The  Crusades,  the  Reformation,  the  Thirty- Years' 
"War,  gave  rise,  in  turn,  to  a  generation  of  singers. 
Mrs.  "Winkworth  gives  a  few  specimens  from  the  eighth 
and  ninth  centuries,  but  there  is  little  to  attract- our 
interest  before  the  year  1100,  when  the  Easter  Hymn, 
'-Christ  is  arisen  1"  appears,  and  the  sweet  and  tender 
chants  of  the  Minnesingers  begin  to  displace  the 
rougher  monkish  minstrels  of  the  preceding  centuries. 


GERMAN  HYMNOLOGY,  335 

We  doubt,  however,  the  propriety  of  including  Wol- 
fram von  Eschenbach's  epic  of  "Parzival"  in  a  work 
of  this  kind,  notwithstanding  its  theme  is  the  search 
for  the  Holy  Grail.  Neither  should  we  think  of  ad- 
mitting Frauenlob  into  the  company  of  hymnologists. 

Between  the  Minnesingers  and  the  age  of  Luther 
but  little  is  quoted :  then  the  catalogue  is  crowded  with 
memorable  forms.  Ulric  von  Ilutten,  Luther,  Justus 
Jonas,  and  Paul  Eber,  lift  up  their  loud,  clear  voices, 
and  German  verse  begins  to  show  its  power  of  carrying 
weighty  thoughts.  The  specimens  given  are  faithfully 
translated,  although  they  lose  somewhat  of  their  quaint, 
racy  vigor  in  the  process.  They  are  instinct  with  faith 
and  courage,  with  an  undertone  of  cheerfulness,  which 
is  in  remarkable  contrast  to  the  gloomy  piety  of  many 
of  our  older  hymns.  The  singers  do  not  seem  to  feel 
that  they  are  lost  sinners :  they  have  a  very  positive 
conviction  that  God  is  on  their  side,  and  that  the  Old 
Enemy  is  going  to  be  soundly  battered  when  he  assails 
them.  The  same  spirit  is  found  in  all  the  hymns 
quoted,  up  to  the  close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War  (A.  D, 
1648),  after  which  it  disappears,  and  a  gentler,  more 
yearning  form  of  song— often,  indeed,  verging  en  the 
mystical — ^takes  its  place. 

A  little  more  space  is  given  to  Paul  Gerhardt,  three 
of  whose  beautiful  hymns  are  quoted.  Spener,  Hiller, 
Tersteegen,  and  the  Moravian  singers  follow,  and  then 
Gellert  and   EHopstock,  the  volume   closing  with   two 


886  ESSAYS  A/iTD  NOTES. 

hymns  by  Bftckert  While  there  is  nothing  in  the 
specimens  furnished  so  poetically  admirable  as  Milton's 
Christmas  Hymn,  or  Addison's  (?)  "Spacious  Firma- 
ment,"  or  many  other  devotional  poems  which  we  might 
select  from  English  authors,  the  superiority  of  the  Ger- 
mans in  strict  hymnology  is  very  apparent  Their 
hymns  have  a  richness  and  fullness  of  expression,  a 
vital  glow  and  strength,  and  a  rythmical  completeness, 
which  few  English  writers  of  hymns  have  equaled. 
The  plain  iambic  and  trochaic  meters  of  Watts  and 
Wosley  seem  to  have  been  accepted  with  us  as  ortho- 
dox models,  while  in  Germany  Christian  Praise  has  as 
many  meters  as  it  has  forms  of  individual  expression. 
In  these  verses  of  Tersteegen,  for  instance,  we  find  the 
original  of  the  stanza  which  we  have  all  found  so 
charming  in  Longfellow's  "  Seaweed : " 

•*Lo8t  in  darkness,  girt  with  dangers, 

Round  me  strangers, 
Through  an  alien  land  I  roam ; 
Outward  trials,  bitter  losses, 

Inward  crosses. 
Lord,  Thou  know^st  have  sought  me  home. 

Bin  of  courage  hath  bereft  me, 

And  hath  left  me 
Bcarce  a  spark  of  faith  or  hope;  "^ 

Bitter  tears  my  heart  oft  sheddeth, 

As  it  drcadeth 
I  am  past  Thy  mercy^s  scope. 


GERMAN  HYMNOLOGY,  ^  887 

'Peace  I  cannot  find  ;  0  take  me,  • 

Lord,  and  make  me 
Prom  this  yoke  of  evil  free ; 
Calm  this  longing  never  sleeping, 

Still  my  weeping, 
Give  me  hope  once  more  in  Thee." 

We  trust  that  this  work  may  prepare  the  way  for 
a  carefully  selected  volume  of  German  Hymns  and 
Chorals,  so  translated  that  they  may  be  sung  to  the 
original  melodies.  Many  of  them,  wo  are  sure,  would 
give  fitting  expression  to  that  hearty,  cheerful  religious . 
fientiment  which  is  at  last  driving  out  the  gloomy,  as- 
cetic  element  bequeathed  to  us  by  the  Middle  Ages; 
and  moreover  they  would  serve  as  examples,  to  show 
that  devotional  songs,  instead  of  being  confined  to  a  few 
keys,  may  be  made  free  of  the  widest  range  of  music 
and  metrical  expression,  We  have  only  space  for  the 
following,  which  is  curiously  adapted  to  the  use  of  the  , 
congregations  in  some  parts  of  Colorado  and  Nevadfiv 
It  is  by  Matthesius,  a  pupil  of  Luther; 

MINER'S  SONO. 

«*0  rather,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost, 
Thou  God,  dost  fix  the  miner^s  post, 
Thy  Word  hath  made  the  wondrous  store 
Of  rock,  and  earth,  and  precioui  ore. 

Good  metal  is  a  gift  from  Thee, 
*T  is  ours  to  use  it  honestly 


A 


838  £SSif4ys  AND  NOTES. 

For  Qod  and  country,  as  *t  la  fit, 
Not  give  it  our  hearts  and  worship  it. 

Who  sees  God  in  the  precious  stone, 
Works  truly,  prays  to  Him  alone, 
Believes  in  Christ  with  all  his  heart. 
He  doth  the  Christian  miner's  part. 

God,  who  createdst  quartz  and  sand, 
Change  them  to  ore  in  this  our  land  %    . 
Thy  blessing  guide  us  where  to  find. 
Thy  Spirit  give  the  wise  clear  mind. 

Who  hath  Thee,  knows  Thy  word  and  loT« 
Better  than  much  fine  gold  shall  prove  | 
Thy  meanest  gift  is  goods  and  gold, 
Christ  is  the  mine  of  wealth  untold. 

At  Zarephath  a  smelter's  wife 
Maintained  of  old  the  prophet's  life, 
Believed  his  word,  had  peace  and  rest, 
And  God's  dear  blessing  with  her  guest* 

60  we  commend.  Lord,  to  Thy  grace 
Thy  little  Church  within  this  place  \ 
It  hath  received  and  keeps  Thy  Wordj 
Repay  it  with  true  prophets.  Lord.** 


GEOKGE  ELIOT. 

DANIEL    DERONDA.  —  In    "Daniel    Deronda" 
George  Eliot    has  probably   reached    the    climax 
of  her  popularity.      Her   literary  history  has   been,  in 
some  respects  an  nnusual  one,  in  keeping  with  the  ex- 
ceptional place  in  English  letters   wliich  she  has  won. 
After  having  labored  for  years  unnoticed  as  a  translator 
of  Strauss  and  a  writer  for  the  "Westminster  Review," 
her  novel  of  "Adam  Bede"  was  a  surprise  and  a  sensa- 
tion almost  equal  to  that  of  "Jane  Eyre."     Had  she 
confined  herself  to  novels  of  English  country  life  she 
would  still  have  been  sure  of  a  permanent  place  in  the 
literature  of  this  age;  but  the  deeper  and  graver  studies 
exacted  by  the  quality  as  well  as  the  force  of  her  intel- 
lect, led  her  into  a  larger  field,  and  resulted  in  the  loss 
of  a  considerable  portion  of  her  audience.     Her  "Ro- 
mola"  is  one  of  the  finest  historical  novels  in  our  lan- 
guage, yet  it  was  a  publisher's  failure.     Its  style  was 
too  pure,  its  art  too  refined,  its  pictures  too  clearly  and 
faithfully  drawn,  for  the  readers  of  her  former  works. 
But  the  book  lifted  her  instantly  into  a  new  impor- 


G40  £SSAyS  AND  NOTES. 

tauce  in  the  eetimate  of  the  small  class  whose  verdict  is 
but  another  term  for  fame*  Instead  of  being  discour- 
aged by  what  seemed  a  reverse  of  literary  fortune,  she 
has  stamped  the  richness  of  her  culture,  the  breadth  of 
her  thought,  and  the  all-embracing  range  of  her  social 
and  moral  interests  upon  her  subsequent  novels,  and  has 
fairly  won  the  place  of  a  master  who  has  the  right  to 
select  his  gifts.  Her  readers,  at  last,  have  ceased  to  dic- 
tate or  solicit:  they  have  learned  to  be  grateful  for 
whatever  they  receive. 

But  two  women  before  her — Madame  de  Staol  and 
George  Sand — ^have  so  devoted  themselves  to  lifelong 
study,  in  all  attainable  departments  of  knowledge,  for 
the  sake  of  high  success  in  literature.  She  is  more 
feminine  than  the  former,  more  masculine  than  the  lat- 
ter, resembles  both  in  her  interest  in  physical,  ethical, 
and  social  science,  yet,  in  her  style  as  a  writer,  hardly 
reaches  either  the  sculpturesque  symmetry  of  the  one 
or  the  warmth,  color,  and  fluent  grace  of  the  other. 

It  seems  to  us  that  none  of  George  Eliot's  former 
novels  so  distinctly  present  the  quality  of  her  intellect, 
as  "Daniel  Deronda.'*  In  it  she  has  reached  both  her 
clearest  hight  of  achievement  and  the  barriers  of  art 
which  she  is  unable  to  scale.  It  is  no  disparagement 
to  recognize  the  latter,  for  they  equally  mark  the  ex* 
tent  of  her  development  and  the  intensity  of  her  aspira- 
tion. In  reviewing  the  first  volume  of  the  work  we 
noticed  her  tendency  to  analyze,  as  well  as  present,  her 


GEORGE  ELIOT,  841 

characters.  She  explains,  and  comments  upon,  their 
words,  movements,  and  changes  of  countenance:  some^ 
times  a  chapter  seems  to  open  in  some  realm  of  ab- 
stract philosophical  speculation,  out  of  which  th'^  au- 
thor slowly  descends  to  take  up  the  thread  of  her  story. 
Sometimes  these  disquisitions  are  so  sound  and  admira- 
bly stated  that  we  are  glad  to  come  upon  them:  fre- 
quently they  strike  us  as  unnecessary  and  not  particu- 
larly important;  and  occasionally  they  are  mere  high- 
sounding  platitudes*  Everybody  knows,  for  example, 
that  the  passion  for  gambling  exercises  a  fiercer  mas- 
tery over  the  body  than  the  sense  of  hunger;  but 
George  Eliot  expands  this  accepted  fact  into  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"The  gambling  appetite  is  more  absolutely  dominant 
than  bodily  hunger,  which  can  be  neutralized  by  an 
emotional  or  intellectual  excitation;  but  the  passion  for 
watching  chances — the  habitual  suspensive  poise  of  the 
mind  in  actual  or  imaginary  play — nullifies  the  suscepti- 
bility to  other  excitation.  In  its  final,  imperious  stage, 
it  seems  the  unjoyous  dissipation  of  demons,  seeking  di- 
version on  the  burning  marl  of  perdition." 

The  opening  paragraph  of  Book  VIII.  is  another  ex- 
ample of  the  author's  method  of  stating  a  truth,  famil- 
iar, in  some  form,  to  all  readers,  with  an  exuberant  sci- 
entific minuteness  and  precision.  It  is  the  manner  of 
a  zoologist  describing  a  slight  variation  of  species: 

"The  varied   transitions   of   tone    with   which   thie 


S49  SskAYS  AND  l^OTES. 

Rpodoh   was  dolivorod  wore  ba  perfect  aa  the  most  ao* 
complislied  aotrcst  could  have  made  them.    The  speech 
wofl  in  fact  a  piece  of  what  may  be  called  sincere  act- 
ing*, this  woman's  nature  was  one  in  which  all  feeling  . 
— and  all  the  more  when  it  was  tragic  as  well  as  real — 
immediately  became  matter  of  conscious  representation! 
experience    immediately    passed    into    drama,    and    she 
acted   her  own  cmotionB.     In   a   minor  degree   this   is 
nothing  uncommon,  but  in  the  princess  tlio  acting  had 
a  rare  perfection  of   phyeiognomy,   voice,   and  gesture* 
It  would  not  be  true  to  say  that  she  felt  less  because 
of    this    double    consciousness;    she    felt — that    is,    her 
mind  went  through— all  the  more,    but  with  a  differ- 
once;  ouch  nucleus  of  puin  or  pleasure  had  a  deep  at- 
snosphero   of   the   excitement   or   spiritual   intoxication 
which  at  once  exalts  and  deadens.'' 

The  great  masters  of  literature  never  fall  into  this 
tnistako;  yet  it  belongs  to  a  phase  tlirough  which  they 
must  inevitably  puss,  That  proportion,  which  is  the 
first  as  it  is  the  last  law  of  Art,  cannot  be  achieved 
through  the  native  instinct  of  genius  alone.  It  must 
be  constantly  and  assiduously  studied,  and  the  processes 
of  study  seem  at  fir8t  to  bo  a  part  of  itself.  The  au- 
thor inust  underHtand  the  reason  of  his  contrasts,  his 
balances  of  characters  and  events:  every  detai*  must 
have  its  purpose  and  justification,  so  that  out  of  a  multi- 
tude of  smaller  hannonies  may  spring  the  symmetry  of 
the  work,  as  a  wholci    In  the  highest  literary  work  we 


GEORGE  ELIOT,  843 

find  no  trace  of  tho  raison  (Tetre  in  details:  the  author 
conceals  this  feature  as  naturally  as  ho  betrayed  it  at 
an  earlier  stage  of  his  growth.  Goethe's  dramatic  poem 
of  "Tasso"  is  a  remarkable  illustration  of  that  earlier 
stage,  and  it  indicates  precisely  tho  plane  of  achieve- 
ment which  George  Eliot  has  reached.  In  fact,  in  spito 
of  the  immense  differences  in  form,  character,  action, 
and  style,  there  is  a  curious  generic  resemblance  be- 
tween "Tasso"  and  "Daniel  Deronda." 

The    plot  of   the  work  also  falls  short  of  absolute 
proportion.     It  really  consists  of  two  histories,  that  of 
Gwendolen  Harleth  and  Daniel  Deronda,  which  are  in- 
terwoven—or, rather,    constantly  made   to   touch — with 
much  skill,  until  toward  the  close  of  the  work^  when 
they  separate  completely.    Deronda  is  a  moral  force  act- 
ing upon  Gwendolen:  ho  never  meets  her  except  in  the 
attitude  of  a  preacher:  yet  we  are  not  entirely  sure,  at 
the  close,  that  his  influence  ~  is  going  to  be  permanent. 
He,  moreover,  in  spite  of   the  wise  strength  and  self- 
possession  and  liberal  tolerance  which  make  him  seem, 
at  times,  just  a  little  too  much  of  a  model  on  a  pedes- 
tal, sorely    disappoints   us  at    the    last    That   a  man, 
educated  as  an  English  gentleman  at  this  day  (for  the 
mention   of  the  Prusso- Austrian   war  of  1866  gives  us 
a  hint  of  the  time),  should,  immediately  on  discovering 
that    he   is   a   Jew   by  birth,    resolve    to    devote   his 
whole  life  to  the  task  of  "restoring   a  political  exist- 
ence to  my  [his]  people,  making  them  a  nation  again. 


844  ESSUVS  AND  NOTES. 

giving  them  a  national  center  snch  as  the  English  have, 
though  they,  too,  are  scattered  over  the  face  of  the 
globe,'^  sweeps  away-  at  a  breath  the  impression  of  his 
wisdom  and  prudence  which  we  may  have  hefore  re- 
ceived. He  goes  out  of  the  story  as  an  unpractical 
dreamer.  He  is  an  agency  in  Gwendolen's  life,  just  as 
the  Jew  Mordecai  is  an  agency  in  his  own,  but  he 
represents  nothing  unless  it  be  the  ineradicable  instinct 
of  blood.  George  Eliot  deals  with  emotional  and  moral 
forces,  and  embodies  their  clash  and  conflict  in  her 
characters,  with  marvelous  skill  But  when  the  crisis  is 
reached,  when  the  Kemesis  appears,  and  her  represen- 
tatives of  \nen  and  women  await  a  solution  in  which 
there  shall  be  some  ideal  blending  of  the  better  possi- 
bilities of  life,  she  closes  her  volume  and  turns  away. 

While,  therefore,  we  find  "Daniel  Deronda"  defi- 
cient in  conception,  lacking  the  highest  artistic  cohe- 
rence, we  must  admit  that  the  execution  of  many  de- 
tached scenes  is  not  surpassed  by  anything  in  English 
fiction.  The  portion  of  the  work  devoted  to  the  rep- 
resentation of  Jewish  life  and  character  is  no  less  ad- 
mirable than  original.  No  other  author,  not  of  the 
race,  has  ever  penetrated  so  tenderly  and  intelligently 
into  its  nature,  and  given  such  voice  to  its  passions, 
virtues,  and  aspirations.  The  brief  glimpse  given  of 
Deronda's  mother  is  a  masterpiece,  and  the  interviews 
between  him  and  Gwendolen  after  the  drowning  of 
Grandcourt  are  all  the  more  effective  in  their   tragic 


GEORGE  ELIOT,  34,5 

power,  because  the  author  leaves  the  characters  alone, 
without  analytical  comihent.  The  subordinate  charac- 
ters,— the  Gascoignes,  the  Meyricks,  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger 
and  Mr,  Lusk — are  carefully  individualized,  and  hence 
both  real  and  agreeable  (except  the  last  named)  to  the 
reader.  It  is  a  rare  virtue  in  George  Eliot  that  she 
slights  none  of  her  figures.  Not  even  the  smallest  is 
ever  carelessly  thrown  in  to  cover  a  vacancy,  as  some 
artists  treat  their  backgrounds. 

That  profound  yet  delicate  psychological  insight 
which  is  one  of  George  Eliot's  highest  qualities  lends 
its  charm  to  "Daniel  Deronda."  After  the  hero's 
mother,  who  was  formerly  a  famous  opera-singer,  but 
is  now  the  Princess  Halm-Eberstein,  has  spoken  to  nim, 
the  author  gives  us  the  following  subtle  characterization : 

"  Extension,  we  know,  is  a  very  imperfect  measure  of 
things,  and  the  length  of  the  sun's  journeying  can  no 
more  tell  us  how  far  life  has  advanced  than  the  acre- 
age of  a  field  can  tell  us  what  growths  may  be  active 
within  it.  A  man  may  go  south,  and,  stumbling  over 
a  bone,  may  meditate  upon  it  till  he  has  found  a  now 
starting-point  for  anatomy;  or  eastward,  and  discover  a 
new  key  to  language  telling  a  new  story  of  races;  or 
he 'may  head  an  expedition  that  opens  new  continenfal 
pathways,  get  himself  maimed  in  body,  and  go  through 
a  whole  heroic  poem  of  resolve  and  endurance;  and  at 
the  end  of  a  few  months  he  may  come  back  to  find  his 
neighbors  gnimbling  at  the   same  parish   grievance  as 


346  I       £SI^Ays  AND  NOTES. 

before,  or  to  see  the  same  elderly  gentleman*  treading 
the  pavement  in  discourse   with   himself,  shaking   his 
head  after  the  same  percussive  butcher*s  boy,  and  paus- 
ing at  the  same    shop-windows   to   look   at   the    same 
prints.     If  the  swiftest  thinking  has  about  the  pace  of 
a  greyhound,  the  slowest   must  be  supposed  to  move, 
like  the  limpet,  by  an  apparent  sticking,  which  after  a 
good    while    is    discerned    to    be  a   slight    progression. 
Such  differences  are  manifest  in  the  variable  intensity 
which  we  call  human  experience,  from  the  revolutionary 
rush  of  change  which    makes  a  new  inner  and  outer 
life,  to  that  quiet  recurrence  of  the  familiar,  which  has 
no  other  epochs  than  those  of  hunger  and  the  heavens." 
There  is  also  a  liitherto  unspoken  truth  in  this  pas- 
sage J    "She  was  in  that  state  of  unconscious  reliance 
and  expectation  which  is  a  common  experience  with  us 
when  we  are  preoccupied  with  our  own  trouble  or  our 
own  purposes.    We  diffuse  our  feeling  over*  others^  and 
count  on  their  acting  from  our   motives,^^     What  an 
amount  of  sympathetic  endurance,  much  of  it  needless, 
is  imposed  upon    men  by  this    truth!     So,   when  she 
makes  a  Jew  sayj  "Every  Jew  should  rear  his  family 
as  if  he  hoped  that  a  deliverer  might  eprlng  from  it," 
she  reveals  the  secret  of  the  genius  and  persistence  of 
the    race.      "In    speaking,  he    always    recovered    some 
glibness    and  hardihood,'*   is  an    excellent    characteriza- 
tion of  a  shameless  vagabond.      There  are  few    pages 
without  some  fortunate  touch  of  the  kind. 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN,  347 

We  have  written  for  those  who  have  read,  or  will 
read,  the  work,  and  hence  have  not  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  give  an  outline  of  the  story;  the  latter,  indeed, 
is  so  simple — its  complications  being  moral  rather  than 
material — that  a  statement  of  it  might  mislead  as  much 
as  enlighten  the  reader.  The  character  are  more  than 
the  story,  and  the  agencies  at  work  are  more  than  the 
events.  Compared  with  "  Middlemarch,"  its  immediate 
predecessor,  "Daniel  Deronda"  is  a  variation  rather 
than  an  advance.  It  is  both  better  and  poorer  than  the 
former, — more  stimulating  at  the  opening  and  less  satis- 
factory at  the  close.  We  doubt  whether  George  Eliot 
will  ever  exceed  her  present  reach  of  achievement;  but 
we  have  full  faith  in  her  power  of  retaining  it  for 
some  time  to  come. 

1876. 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 

Thb  Shadow  of  the  Sword.  A  Romance. — Mr, 
Buchanan,  after  having  tried  his  hand  at  poetry,  jour- 
nalism, criticism,  native,  American,  and  classic  themes, 
now  comes  before  ns  with  a  romance.  As  the  early 
companion  of  David  Gray,  the  antagonist  of  Swin- 
burne, the  exalter  of  himself,  and  the  prostrate  wor- 
shiper of  Walt  Whitman j  each  one  of  his  literary  ven- 


848  JSS^SAYS  A^D  NOTES. 

tnrea  excites  a  certain  cnrioBity  wbioli  is  sometliing 
quite  unrelated  to  its  literary  value.  The  reader  who 
has  onlj  partially  followed  his  aberrant  courses,  natu* 
rally  expects  that  his  performance  as  an  author— hence- 
forth, at  least — shall  be,  as  far  as  possible^  an  exemplifi- 
cation of  his  declared  tastes.  Otherwise  his  vehement 
preaching  must  fail  of  its  effect.  If  he  finds  a 
" IIomer-Moses "  in  one  author,  and  a  base  "fleshly** 
fiend  in  another,  it  must  be  the  former,  of  course, 
whom  he  will  strive  to.  emulate, — unless,  indeed,  he 
feels  that  he  has  already  reached  a  plane  above  that 
of  the  two  combined  names.  In  either  case,  he  has 
bound  himself  over,  under  penalty  of  acknowledging 
that  he  has  hitherto  been  merely  writing  for  effect,  to 
a  definite  line  of  literary  effort. 

Opening  his  romance,  we  fall,  to  our  profound 
amazement,  upon  a  piece  of  descriptive  writing  which, 
in  variety  of  color,  abundance  of  detail,  and  prodi- 
gality of  epithet,  at  once  suggests  his  arch-detestation, 
Swinburne.  The  particulars  of  the  scene  are  not  cata- 
logued, as  is  the  habit  of  Mr.  Buchanan's  American 
master:  they  are  actually  intended  to  be  coherent,  and 
he  has  sought  to  imbue  them  with  the  sensiipus  atmos- 
phere of  the  school  he  loathes.  True,  he  does  not  reach 
the  richness  and  palpitating  delight  of  the  school;  but 
this  is  evidently  the  result  of  want  of  power,  not  want 
of  will.  The  third  paragraph  on  the  first  page  consists 
of  the  following  single  sentence: 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN.  849 

*^Tlie  sun  is  sinking  afar  away  across  the  waters, 
sinking  with  a  last  golden  gleam  amid  the  mysteiions 
Hesperides  of  the  silent  air,  and  his  blinding  light 
comes  slant  across  the  glassy  calm  till  it  strikee  on  t]jo 
scarred  and  storm-rent  faces  of  these  Breton  crags,  illu- 
minating and  vivifying  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the 
cliffs  beneath,  burning  on  the  summits  and  lightening 
their  natural  red  to  the  vivid  crimson  of  dripping  blood, 
changing  the  coarse  grass  and  yellow  starwort  into 
threads  of  emerald  and  glimmering  stars,  burning  in  a 
golden  mist  around  the  yellow  flowers  of  the  overhang- 
ing broom,  and  striking  with  fiercest  ray  on  one  naked 
rock  or  solid  stone  which  juts  out  like  a  huge  horn 
over  the  brink  of  the  abyss,  and  around  which  a  strong 
rope  is  noosed  and  firmly  knotted." 

And  so  on,  for  three  pages  more.  Then  the  story 
begins  to  begin,  on  the  coast  of  Brittany,  early  in  the 
year  1813.  The  romance  has  a  poetic  "Proem,"  which 
closes  with  the  words:  "Did  Christ  rise? — Read  I" 
"We  have  heeded  the  emphasized  command  and  read; 
and  we  are  driven  to  the  dismal  conclusion  that  Christ 
did  noi  rise, — and  does  not,  to  those  who  profoundly 
believe  in  Him.  The  plot  is  simply  this:  Rohan  G wen- 
fern,  a  Breton  fisherman,  has  been  taught  Christianity 
by  Master  Arfoll,  an  itinerant  schoolmaster,  and  is  led 
to  execrate  war,  and  consequently  Napoleon,  as  a  war- 
maker.  He  is  drawn  in  the  new  levy  of  troops,  which 
does  not  exempt  the  only  sona  of   widows,  refuses  to 


850  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

Bubmit,  and  takes  refuge  in  a  cave  among  the  clifs. 
Here  lie  is  followed,  besieged  for  days,  and  finally  com- 
pelled to  take  life  in  order  to  escape  capture.  He  bo- 
comes  a  starved,  bunted,  desperate,  and  finally  an  insane 
outlaw,  now  and  tben  appearing  to  his  old  mother,  or 
his  betrothed  bride,  Marcelle.  The  return  of  the  Bour- 
bons gives  him  security,  and  even  some  little  distinc- 
tion; but  Just  before  the  marriage  is  to  take  place,  Na- 
polcan  lands  from  Elba,  and  there  is  again  war.  Rohan 
now  determines  to  assassinate  the  Emperor,  and  there  is 
a  scene,  nine  solid  pages  long,  in  the  bedchamber  of 
the  latter,  which  for  moonlight,  mystery,  and  high- 
wrought  effect,  has  not  been  surpassed  since  George 
Lippard  wrote  his  fearful  "Legend^  of  the  "Wissa- 
hickon.'*  "When  Napoleon  prays  before  lying  down,  Mr. 
Buchanan  peeps  into  the  room,  starts  back,  and  ex- 
claims J  "Merciful  God!  what  is  this!  He  has  sunk 
upon  his  knees  P^  Well,  the  Emperor  escaped  the 
knife— that  is  matter  of  history:  "Waterloo  Is  fought; 
Bohan  comes  home  to  the  Breton  coast,  and  passes  out 
of  the  romance  as  a  harmless  maniac^  watched  by  his 
betrothed  bride. 

The  moral  of  the  story  is:  Befuse  to  figtt,  for  the 
sake  of  humanity,  and  you  will  be  forced  to  kill  peo- 
ple, you  will  become  insane,  and  attempt  midnight 
murder.  The  rational  human  being  will  say  to  himself: 
"  It  is  better  to  serve  as  a  soldier."  Mr.  Buchanan 
probably  intends  to  convey  a  different  lesson,  but  we 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN,  851 

confess  ourselves  unable,  to  discover  it.  The  only  ap*  . 
proach  to  a  victory  of  the  better  principle  is  where 
Rohan  saves  several  persons  from  a  freshet,  at  the  risjc 
of  his  life ;  yet  even  this  leaves  no  more  than  a  fleeting 
effect  behind  it.  The  sympathy  of  the  reader  with  him 
is  exhausted  before  the  book  is  half  read:  his  very 
heroism  soon  becomes  animal,  and  thus  a  matter  of 
whim  rather  than  principle.  He  overcomes  nothing, 
accomplishes  nothing — in  fact,  correctly  understands 
nothing,  A  work  of  this  character  is  utterly  valueless 
unless  it  includes  some  moral  or  intellectual  progression ; 
but  Mr,  Buchanan's  hero  has  so  little  brain  that  he 
loses  it  at  the  very  commencement  of  the  struggle,  and 
thus  ceases  to  represent  anything  beyond  his  own  weak- 
ness. 

As  much  of  the  descriptive  writing  suggests  Swin^ 
bume's  style,  so  the  plot  is  an  echo  of  Victor  Hugo's 
"Toilers  of  the  Sea."  Bohan's  life  in  the  cavern  is 
like  Gilliatt's  among  the  rocks,  engaged  in  saving  the 
vessel,  and  the  latter's  deliberate  suicide  is  the  equiva- 
lent of  the  former's  insanity.  Superhuman  and  misdi- 
rected endurance,  followed  by  utter  ruin,  is  the  burden 
of  both  works,  and  it  is  morally  as  unhealthy  as  it  is 
intellectually  disagreeable.  There  are,  unfortunately, 
persons  who  cannot  relish  sentiment  or  ethics  until  it 
has  acquired  a  ha%U  gout;  and  their  taste  makes  such 
romances  possible.  The  only  thing  in  Mr.  Buchenan's 
book  which  we   can  commend  is  his  presentation   of 


'I 
852  £SSAys  AND  NOTES. 


\^SA 


Breton  life.  His  characters  are  well  studied  and  clearly 
drawn;  and  he  uses  the  local  characteristics  with  the 
ease  and  skill  of  .one  who  knows  them  through  close 
observation.  His  Corporal  Ewen  is  an  excellent  piece 
of  character-painting,  and  points  out  to  the  author  a  less 
ambitious  path  in  which  he  may  go  further  and  fare 
better. 

1877. 


"OUIDA.^' 

Ariadne,  the  Story  of  a  Dream.-^The  irrepressible 
"Ouida"  comes  forth  again,  this  time  in  a  Greek  pep- 
lum  and  sandals,  with  roses  in  her  hain  With  a  pace 
which  is  meant  to  be  that  of  a  choric  dance,  but  rather 
suggests  the  "hop,  skip  and  jump*'  of  school-children, 
she  circles  around  a  mutilated  altar,  casting  into  the 
flame  upon  it  huge  handfuls  of  strange  gums  and 
spices,  some  of  which  give  us  a  momentary  sense  of 
perfume,  while  others  blind,  strangle,  and  set  us  cough- 
ing. Out  of  the  smoke  arise  the  forms  of  her  story, 
vivid  almost  to  materialization  or  fading  away  into  the 
dimmest  of  outlines,  as  the  mood  takes  her.  Far  hence, 
ye  profane!  Come  not  here  to  question, — for  she  will 
not  answer.  Criticise,  and  she  is  deaf:  complain,  and 
she  points  to  the  door.  A  woman  who  has  written  at 
her   own  wild  will  for  so  many  years,  and   found  so 


"  OUIDAr  353 

much  profit  in  it,  will  not  give  up  one  sham  diamond 
of  rhetoric  for  all  the  critics  in  Christendom.  She  is 
the  very  Zingara  of  literature,  and  in  spite  of  her  medi- 
ceval  years  we  can't  imagine  her  without  loose  hair  and 
a  tambourine.  She  knows  that  she  has  **  weird  eyes," 
and  that  when  she  turns  them  upon  thousands  of  sen- 
timental readers,  the  latter  cannot  help  but  read.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  madly  incoherent  than  "Ariadne," 
more  shallow  and  flippant  in  its  classicism,  more  hys- 
terical in  its  passion,— -yet  a  clever  talent  for  presenting 
piquant  and  unexpected  situations,  and  infusing  a  nar* 
rative  with  a  willful  spirit  of  life,  cannot  be  domed  tc 
this,  ag  to  all  other  works  of  the  same  author, 

1877. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHOENE. 

FANSHAWE,  AND  Otheb  Pieces,  —  HawtHorne  has 
already  taken  his  permanent  place  as  a  ^classic" 
in  our  literature,  and  with  as  clear  a  right  as  anj  of  his 
predecessors.  In  all  the  higher  literary  qualities — ^in  all 
that  constitutes  creative  genius— he  is  indisputably  the 
first.  He  found  his  own  field  of  labor,  like  Cooper, 
but  is  entitled  to  higher  honors  as  a  discoverer,  inas- 
much as  that  field  was  loftier  and  more  remote.  His 
style  is  no  less  limpid  than  that  of  Irving,  and  is  the 
more  attractive,  in  so  far  as  it  betrays  the  proportions 
of  no  model  and  the  manner  of  no  former  period.  He 
is  at  once  the  rarest  and  purest  growth  of  the  intellect- 
ual and  social  soil  from  which  he  sprang.  He  is  not 
only  American,  but  no  other  race  or  time  could  possibly 
have  produced  him.  * 

Even  yet,  in  the  wider  recognition  which  has  fol- 
lowed his  death,  the  true  sources  of  his  power  are  not 
fully  understood.  The  two  new  volumes,  just  issued, 
which  contain  his  earliest  writings  and  the  fragment  of 
his  last  unfinished  romance,  have  an  interest  as  illustra- 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE,  855 

tiong  6f  his  peculiar  literary  temperament,  which  they 
can  Bcarcely  be  said  to  possess  in  any  other  sense. 
These  and  the  six  volumes  of  his  private  journal  which 
have  already  appeared,  give  ample  evidence  of  the  di- 
rect homogeneous  character  of  his  growth.  Out  of  the 
shy,  brooding  habit  of  mind  which  he  condemned  him- 
self, but  could  not  overcome — out  of  an  imagination  ir- 
resistibly drawn  to  the  mysteries  of  human  nature,  and 
the  secret  springs  of  action  in  individual  lives — out  of  , 
a  power  of  absorption  and  concentration  which  was 
equally  a  natural  gift— ho  drew  the  style  as  well  as  the 
substance  of  his  works.  Possessing  his  subject  wholly 
and  with  all  the  strength  of  his  nature,  he  simply 
sought  to  express  it  clearly.  Therefore  it  is  that  no- 
one  of  his  imitators  in  literature  has  been  successful. 
The  purity,  the  unstudied  picturesqueness,  and  the  pen- 
sive grace  of  his  diction  were  developed  with  the 
broader  range  of  his  observation  of  life,  and  the  deeper 
reach  of  his  individual  vision.  They  cannot  be  studied 
as  something  apart  from  the  latter,  and  attained  by  a 
nature  differently  endowed. 

"Fanshawe"  is  a  work  which  derives  its  interest 
wholly  from  the  author's  later  masterpieces.  It  has  the 
slightest  possible  plot,  the  characters  are  imperfectly 
presented,  the  descriptions  are  commonplace  to  the 
verge  of  tameness,  yet  one  who  reads  the  story  care- 
fully will  easily  detect  the  weak  and  timid  presence  of 
all  Hawthorne's  peculiar  powers.     We  have  his  habit 


I 

856  JISSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

of  minute  and  careful  obeervation,  spending  itself  upon 
unneceesary  features;  his  interest  in  human  motives  and 
actions,  but  exhibited  in  combination  with  the  self-dis- 
trust arising  from  his  lack  of  experience;  and  the  grave 
quaintness  of  his  humor,  in  the  character  of  Dr.  Mel- 
moth.  It  is  easy  to  see  why,  in  after  years,  he  endeav- 
ored to  suppress  the  work ;  and  wo  do  not  see  why  his 
evident  wishes  in  regard  to  it  should  not  have  received 
the  same  respect  which  has  been  yielded  to  his  prohi- 
bition of  a  biography. 

Mr.  Lathrup,  however,  in  his  "Study  of  Ilaw- 
thomc,''  gives  us  something  so  like  a  biography  that 
the  distinction  is  not  very  clear.  Indeed,  Ilawthomo 
hliiiHolf)  III  IiIm  notU'bookHi  ban  furiilMhud  Hueh  ample 
material  that  his  prohibition  is  coupled  with  a  direct 
temptation.  The  external  features  of  his  life  are  al- 
ready known,  and  his  own  writings  give  us  the  most 
complete  and  satisfactory  history  of  his  intellectual  de- 
velopment. We  have  all  the  material  that  we  really 
need  for  an  analysis  of  his  genius.  Perhaps  the 
strongest  impression  to  be  derived  from  these  volumes 
is  that  of  a  healthy  though  peculiarly  constituted  mind. 
The  qualities  which,  to  a  superficial  reader,  may  have 
suggested  some  morbid  taint  in  his  nature,  are  seen  to 
bo  component  parts  of  a  sound  originality.  "We  under- 
stand, moreover,  the  tardiness  of  his  recognition  and 
reward.  His  early  work  is  marvelously  simple  and 
honest*     He  made  no   concession  to  the  taste  of  the 


HENXY  yAMES,  yR,  857 

day,  hot  even  an  effort  to  rise  beyond  the  plane  of  his 
growth.  His  genius  required  many  seasons  for  its  ri- 
pening, and  he  could  not  have  hastened  the  process. 
Thus,  when  the  fortunate  hour  came  it  was  bom  of  a 
long  accumulation  of  reflection  and  experience,  of  the 
fullness  of  a  silent,  brooding  mind,  and  of  earnest 
wrestling  with  the  deepest  problems  of  human  nature. 

1876. 


HENKY  JAMES,  JR. 

The  American. — Mr.  Henry  James,  jr.,  inherits  from 
his  father  a  diction  so  rich  and  pure,  so  fluent  and  co, 
pious,  so  finely-shaded  yet  capable  of  such  varied  ser- 
vice, that  it  is,  in  itself,  a  form  of  genius.  Few  men 
have  ever  been  so  brilliantly  equipped  for  literary  per- 
formance. Carefully-trained  taste,  large  acquirement  of 
knowledge,  experience  of  lands  and  races,  and  associa- 
tion with  the  best  minds,  have  combined  to  supply  him 
with  all  the  purely  intellectual  requisites  which  an  au- 
thor could  desire.  His  use  of  these  rare  advantages, 
and  consequently  the  question  of  his  highest  success, 
depends  therefore  upon  that  subtle  element  of  tempera- 
ment which  can  neither  be  inherited  nor  acquired,—- 
that  passion,  springing  equally  from  the  intellect  and 
the  moral  nature,  which  makes  creation  a  necessity.    It 


85S  JESS4yS  AND  NOTES. 

is  this  that  tinges  the  colorless  ichor  of  the  brain  with 
the  strong,  ruddy  hues  of  the  heart,  and  forces  the  very 
pulses  of  an  author's  life,  whether  he  will  or  not,  to 
beat  upon  his  pages. 

We  cannot  yet  distinctly  feel  the  presence  of  such 
an  informing  power  in  Mr.  James's  stories  and  novels. 
He  sits  beside  his  characters,  observing  and  delineating 
their  qualities  and  actions  with  marvelous  skill,  yet  ap- 
parently untouched  by  any  sympathy  with  them.  His 
objectiveness  is  that  of  the  savant  rather  than  that  of 
the  novelist  or  dramatic  poet.  iHis  conceptions  are  not 
forged  in  the  heat  of  his  mind,  but  hammered  from 
cold  steel,  the  temper  of  which  has  been  tested  in  ad- 
vanccc  This  gives  a  stamp  of  security  to  his  work, 
which,  up  to  a  certain  point,  is  both  an  advantage  and  a 
charm.  He  approaches  fine  psychological  problems  with 
a  confidence  which  the  reader  involuntarily  shares,  and 
rarely  falls  short  of  the  limits  within  which  he  has  de- 
cided to  solve  them.  Yet  most  of  his  figures  have 
eomething  of  the  character  of  bas-reliefs :  they  can  only 
be  seen  from  one  side,  and  are  best  seen  in  one  light. 
In  some  of  his  former  stories,  their  selected  peculiarities 
are  presented  with  such  care  and  vividness,  that  we 
nearly  lose  all  other  aspects  of  their  individualities, 
even  their  sex. 

In  "The  American,"  Mr.  James  has  to  some  extent 
overcome  this  tendency.  Every  character  is  cut  like  an 
intaglio,  the  outlines  are  so  sharp  and  clear;  and  they 


HENRY  JAMES,   JR.  359 

are  never  allowed  to  blur.  The  picture  of  tlie  Belle- 
garde  family,  with  its  meanness,  seliislmess,  and  tho  im- 
pregnable pride  of  the  vidU  nohlessej  is  equal  to  any- 
thing of  the  kind  in  Balzac.  In  fact,  heartily  as  we 
detest  its  members,  and  much  as  we  admire  the  pluck 
and  good-nature  of  Mr.  Newman,  the  American  manu- 
facturer, who  is  determined  to  buy  the  finest  piece  of 
Sevres  porcelain  for  a  wife,  we  find  some  of  our  respect 
given  back  to  the  former,  at  the  close  of  the  story— if 
it  can  be  called  a  close  where  the  action  simply  stops, 
leaving  matters  very  much  as  they  were  before.  As  in 
"Roderick  Hudson,"  Mr,  James  gives  us  the  various 
stages  of  a  problem,  and  omits  the  solution.  Or,  if  the 
fact  that  Newman  has  utterly  failed,  in  spite  of  the 
pluck  and  shrewd  natural  diplomacy  he  has  exhibited 
throughout  the  story,  must  be  accepted  as  a  solution, 
it  is  one  which  takes  him  down  from  his  heroic  ped- 
estal and  casts  a  suspicion  of  stupidity  over  his  goodness 
of  heart.  Our  interest  in  "The  American"  would  bo 
greater,  if  we  could  have  the  least  faith  in  Newman's 
professed  love,  or  Madame  de  Cintr^'s  amiable  inclina- 
tion. But  we  contemplate  them  as  coldly  as  we  feel 
the  author  must  have  done,  and,  after  a  few  chapters, 
only  value  them  as  subject  for  his  rapid,  keen,  sure 
dissecting  hand,  Valentin  de  Bellegarde  and  Mdlle, 
No^mie  are  the  two  for  whom  we  most  care,  because 
they  have,  a  slight  clothing  of  fiesh-and-blood.  The 
parts  they  play  are  of  little  consequence,  seeing  that  so 


860  £SSA  VS  A//D  NOTES, 

I 
little  comes   of  thenii  but  they  are  aa  well-drawn  aa 

need  be. 

The  great  charm,  of  the  Btory  Ilea  in  the  dialogue 
and  by-play  of  the  principal  persona*  "We  overlook  the 
occaBional  lapses  of  dramatic  consistency,  while  listening 
to  conversation  bo  brilliant,  so  subtle,  and  so  abundant 
in  finely-contrasted  touches  of  character.  Herein  Mr. 
James  is  easily  a  master.  In  the  descriptive  passages, 
also,  he  is  never  at  fault:  he  knows  so  well  what  to 
paint,  that  he  rarely  misses  a  stroke.  Hence  we  regret 
all  the  more  keenly  the  absence  of  that  profound  and 
universal  human  sympathy  which  is  needed  to  temper 
the  severity  of  his  scientific  apprehension  of  the  natures 
of  men  and  women.  We  cannot  escape  the  impression 
of  an  indifference,  never  expressed,  perhaps  because  it 
is  congenital,  and  thus  not  distinctly  conscious  to  the  au- 
thorns  mind;  and  it  is  an  indifference  which  does  not 
predict  a  later  cynicism,  since  the  very  quality  of  the 
latter  implies  at  least  a  hostile  interest.  In  a  word,  Mr. 
James  writes  like  a  man  who  haa  never  known  an  en* 
thusiasm, — like  one  who,  finding  that  in  certain  rare  and 
refined  intellectual  qualities  he  is  the  superior  of  most 
of  those  whom  he  meets,  is  easily  led  to  overlook  the 
intnusic  Value  of  other  forces  in  human  nature.  "With 
his  remarkable  ability,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  should 
have  deliberately  assumed  the  restrictions  we  have  indi- 
cated: they  are  probably  natural  and  inevitable. 

1877. 


WILLIAM  A  HO  WELLS,  361 


WILLIAM  D.  HO  WELLS. 

Out    of    the    Question:    A    Comedy. — It  is    quite 
time  to  look  for  the  beginnings,   at  least,  of  a  native 
dramatic    literature.      It  could    scarcely  have  been  ex- 
pected at  a  much  earlier  period,  because  nothing  could 
come  of  that  strict   adherence   to   conventional   models 
which  stamps  most  of    the  attempts   already  made  by 
American   writers.     Mr.  George  H.  Boker  is  the  only 
one  of  our  authors  who  has  done  high  and  earnest  work 
in  this  field.     His  tragedy  of  "Calaynos"  was  a  remark- 
able success  in  London,  where  it  was  given  for  one  hun- 
dred successive  nights,  but  in  this  country  it  was  only 
played  for  a  fortnight  in  Philadelphia,    Both  this  play 
and  his    "Francesca    da    Rimini"    were    too    good,  as 
dramatic  poems,  to  be  appreciated  by  our  audiences  of 
twenty  years  ago — or  perhaps  even  now.     He  was  in 
advance  of  his  time.    Of  the  earlier  American  dramas, 
"Brutus,"    "Spartacus,"    and    "Metamora"    keep   their 
places  on  the  stage,  partly  through   traditional  prestige 
and  partly  from  the  few  strong  if  rather  coarse  dramatic 
effects  which  they  contain.     They  are  never  read,  and 
no  phrases  from  them  have  become  current,  even  in  the 
mouths  of  inveterate  theatre-goers.    Moreover,  it  is  only 
recently  that  the  theatre  itself  has  sufficiently  conquered 
Poritanic  prejudices  to  be  accepted  as  a  necessary  form 
of  culture  no  less  than  of  recreation.    It  is  still  almoet 


I 
862  £SSA  yS  AND  NOTES. 

wholly  dependent  on  the  latter  element  for  its  rapport, 
and  has  shared  in  the  general  demoralization  which  has 
followed  the  war;  but  it  will  inevitably  share  also  in 
the  coming  revival  of  higher  intellectual  aims. 

It  is  curious  that  of  all  the  attempts  at  American 
Comedy  which  hare  been  put  upon  the  stage  for  thirty 
years  past — some  of  them  remarkably  successful  in  a 
business  point  of  view — not  one  has  been  the  work  of 
a  known  author,  until  Messrs.  Twain  and  "Warner's 
"Gilded  Ago"  was  dramatized.  We  do  not  include 
in  this  estimate  Mr.  Boker^s  "Widow's  Marriage," 
which,  we  believe,  has  never  been  acted.  Perhaps  the 
very  fact  tlmt  a  man  with  a  certain  pmount  of  clever- 
ness, and  familiar  with  such  scenic  efTccts  and  dramatio 
situations  as  are  certain  to  impress  an  average  public,  is 
60  easily  able  to  succeed  as  a  playwright,  has  hitherto 
held  back  authors  of  real  ability  from  venturing  upon 
this  field.  It  is  rather  humiliating  to  earnest  effort  to 
bo  brilliantly  sur^xissed,  in  popular  estimation,  by  flip- 
pant mediocrity.  Hence  our  literature  possesses  poems 
in  dramatic  form  rather  than  acting  plays, 

We  have  therefore  heartily  welcomed  Mr.  Howells' 
first  essay  in  the  line  of  refined  comedy— »hi8  "Parlor- 
Car" — as  an  instance  of  courage  as  well  as  capacity. 
It  belongs  to  a  department  of  dramatic  literature  which 
has  already  established  its  legitimacy  in  France,  but  is 
almost  a  stranger  to  the  English  stage,  except  through 
badly-adapted  translations.     In   fact,  it  requires  a  sub- 


WILLIAM  Z>,  HO  WELLS,  "  363 

tlety  in  the  conception  of  character,  a  capacity  to  give 
the  finest  shades  of  expression  in  tone  and  movement, 
which  very  few  of  our  actors  and  actresses  are  able 
to  render.  In  those  French  pieces  the  characters  are 
real  gentlemen  and  ladies;  the  plot  is  usually  slight 
and  without  violent  situations.  The  entire  charm  lies 
in  the  refined  presentation  and  contrast  of  feelings,  or 
interests,  not  so  profound  as  to  disturb,  but  sufficiently 
pronounced  to  awaken  an  easy  and  agreeable  sympathy, 
The  "Parlor-Car"  is  an  admirable  acclimatization  of 
this  school.  One  cares  nothing  for  the  two  personages 
in  it,  but  one  is  thoroughly  diverted  by  their  pretty  mu- 
tual hypocrisies.  It  would  certainly  be  successful  on 
the  stage,  provided  the  right  man  and  woman  could  bo 
found  to  represent  it. 

In  "Out  of  the  Question,"  Mr,  Ho  wells  seems  to 
be  gradually  feeling  his  way  toward  larger  work.  "W© 
have  five  characters  instead  of  two,  and  six  soeneb  in- 
stead of  one.  There  is  something  more  of  plot,  but  it 
is  still  very  slight:  the  loves  of  Miss  Bellingham.  of  a 
blue-blooded  family,  and  Mr.  Blake,  a  steamboat  engi- 
neer, constitute  the  theme,  the  true  interest  whereof 
(since  every  one  knows  at  the  beginning  what  the  end 
must  be)  lies  in  the  speech  and  action  of  the  different 
personages.  Mr,  Howells  is  always  more  successful  with 
his  women  than  with  his  men — and  especially  with  the 
half-womanized  girl,  whom  we  meet,  with  slight  varia- 
tions of   temperament   and   character,  in   most ,  of   his 


864  £SSAYS  AND  NOTES. 

rtories.  He  delights  to  represent  her  uncertain  emo- 
tions, her  "skittish"  ways,  her  mixtnre  of  tenderness, 
petulance,  frankness,  and  feminine  duplicity.  His  style, 
the  perfection  of  lightsome  grace  and  vivacity,  is  ad- 
mirably adapted  for  such  representation;  we  feel  the 
transient  charm  of  moods  which  may  suggest  some 
deeper  base  of  character  but  have  yet  scarcely  touched 
it— the  surface-play,  not  the  moving  reality,  of  human 
passion.  By  contrast,  Mr.  Ilowells*  men  lack  substance, 
for  we  require,  in  men,  something  more  than  subordi* 
nate  service.  Mr.  Blake,  in  "Out  of  the  Question,"  haa 
a  more  pronounced  virility,  but  he  is  still  rather  a  con- 
ventional hero. 

The  chief  fault  of  the  comedy — from  the  literary, 
not  the  theatrical  point  of  view — is  the  absence  of  any 
but  the  most  superficial  conflict  of  feelings  and  princi* 
pies.  "Wo  have  the  representatives  of  gentility — Mrs. 
Belllngham,  weak,  foolish  and  hypocritical;  her  boDi 
man  enough  to  fight  for  the  Union,  but  not  enough  to 
refuse  to  be  a  snob  at  his  mother's  command;  and  her 
sister,  Mrs.  Murray,  selfish  and  vulgar  in  every  fiber  of 
her  nature.  Should  not  Blake's  unaided  manliness  pre- 
vail against  these?  But  not  he  must  get  back  the 
daughter's  watch  from  a  thieving  tramp  and  have  his 
wrist  broken,  must  turn  out  also  to  be  the  savior  of 
the  brother's  life,  in  order  that  gratitude— not  the  sim- 
ple force  of  character — shall  conquer  the  aristocratic 
prejudices  of  the  family.     This  solution  of  the  dramatic 


WILLIAM  A  HO  WELLS,  865 

problem  is  old  enough  to  be  a  little  threadbare.  "We 
cannot  escape  the  belief  that  Miss  Bellingham  herself 
would  give  him  up,  without  tragical  sorrow,  but  lor 
this  auxiliary  of  family  gratitude.  In  spite  of  her 
charming,  girlish  gushes  of  feeling  she  is  too  slight  and 
shallow  a  nature  to  be  capable  of  much  resistance  or 
sacrifice.  Mr,  Ilowells  has  so  thoroughly  mastered  the 
technique  of  refined  comedy  that  he  now  needs  only 
to  study  the  deeper  and  more  permanent  forces  in  the 
natures  of  men  and  women,  to  produce  really  important 
work  of  the  kind.  There  must  be  a  root  to  the  most 
delicate  and  fragrant  plant,  and  even  so  the  lightest 
and  airiest  literary  performance  must  hint  of  some  basis 
in  the  reality  of  life. 


A  Counterfeit  Presentment:  A  Comedy. — Mr. 
Howells  appears  to  be  carefully  working  his  way  into 
that  field  of  refined  comedy,  for  which  he  possesses 
many  appropriate  qualities.  In  "A  Counterfeit  Pre- 
sentment "  he  has  at  last  reached  the  stage ;  for  Mr, 
Lawrence  Barrett,  who  owns  the  right  of  representation, 
has  already  produced  it  in  Cincinnati.  We  heartily  hope 
that  it  may  be  successful  as  an  acting  comedy;  it  will 
be  a  great  gain  if  our  theatre-going  public  can  be  led 
to  appreciate  the  superiority  of  light,  graceful,  refined 


866  £SSJlYS  AND  NOTES. 

Kumor,  picturesque  contrasts  of  character  and  the  charm 
of  probable  incidents,  over  the  extravagant  and  vulgar 
forms  of  farce  which  are  threatening  to  usurp  our  stage. 
"A  Counterfeit  Presentment"  has  not  the  compactness 
and  the  brilliant  succession  of  deceitful  devices  which 
wo  find  in  Mr.  Ilowells*  "Parlor  Car;"    both  the  in- 
cidents and  the    manifestations  of  character   are   more 
improbable,— too  much  so,    indeed,   for   a  story   meant 
only  to  be   read,   but  not  for  the  sharper  perspective 
wliich  the  stage  ro(iuirc8.    The  heroine,  who  is  a  bundle 
of  hysterical  moodH,  is  less  agreeable  to  tlie  imagination 
than  she  would  be,  if  personated  by  a  handsome  and 
skilful  young  actress.    Those  very  points  in  wliich  the 
author  shows  the  keenest  and  most  delicate  perception 
-•■interpretative  glances,  gestures  and   movements,    and 
quick,  unexpected  changes,   whereby  he  gives   a  pictur- 
esque character  to  ordinary  talk— are   so  many  aids  to 
mimetic  roprcHontation»     The  comedy    should    be   read 
with   reference  to  the  author*s   purpose.    His  plan  car- 
ries him,  to  a  certain  extent,  beyond  the  strict  limits  of 
literary  art,  and  is  most  fairly  judged  by  applying  only 
the  drutnatic  ntatidurd.    If  this  were  Franco,  wliuro  the 
light,  chuurftil  cuniudy  of  ordinary  life  U   m  well  ap- 
preciated, and  so   admirably  played,  the  success  of  "A 
Counterfeit   Presentment"  would   be  a  forgone  conclu- 
sion. 

1877. 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS,  867 


-    ELIZABETH  STUAKT  PHELPS, 

The  Story  op  Avis. — "Tiie  Story  of    Avis"  is  a 
curious,  we  might  say  a  remarkable,  production.     Few 
readers,  we  suspect,  will  be  able  either  wholly   to  liko 
or  wholly  to  dislike  it.    There  is  scarcely  a  page  which 
does  not  indicate  the  presence  of  a  decided  natural  clev 
emess,  overlaid  with  the  signs  of  an  effort,  sometimes 
absolutely  painful,  to  bo  much  more  than  clever;   the 
unreality  of  the  characters,  always  on  the  point  of  grow- 
ing weary,  is  every  now  and  then  redeemed  by  one  of 
those  fresh,  quaint    touches   which    made    the  author's 
<* Gates  Ajar"  so  popular;   and  the  tenseness  of  every 
string  that  is  touched  varies  its  piercing  shrillness  with 
the  deeper  note  of  a  very  earnest  aspiration.    But  the 
strongest  characteristic  of  the  story  is  its  unconscious 
betrayal  of  the  intellectual  influences  which  have  been 
working  upon  the  mind  of  the  author.    From  this  one 
volume  a  skilful  literary  analyst,  a   century  hence,  may 
be  able  to  reconstruct  the  tastes,  faAhions,  and  habits  of 
thought  prevalent  in  Eastern  Massachusetts  at  this  day. 
He  will  find  George  Eliot,  in  the  author's  constant  com- 
ment upon  and  explanation  of  the  words  and  actions  of 
her  characters;  Mrs,  Spofford,  in  the  laying  on  of  plen- 
tiful color,  in  nature,  costume,  and  furniture,  and  tie 
over-vitalizing  of   these    accessories  by  an    imagination 
ronning  wild;  Emerson^  Hawthorne,  and  Henry  James, 


868  £SSAys  and  notes. 

*jr.,  in  scattered  toucliea  of  description  or  pliiloeopliic 
corameht.  In  short,  the  "Story  of  Avis"  impresses  us 
as  the  result  of  breathing  a  certain  intellectual  stimulus 
for  years,  and  of  a  purpose,  deliberately  formed,  to  be- 
come, in  turn,  one  of  the  stimulants.  It  is  not  a  work 
which  compelled  its  own  creation;  and  therefore  it 
would  probably  have  been  much  more  satisfactory  if 
the  author's  ambition  had  been  content  with  a  simpler 
stylo,  and  with  characters  nearer  to  ordinary  humanity. 
The  key-note  is  struck  upon  the  very  first  page,  where 
"she  changed  the  accent  of  her  thoughts  as  they  pur- 
sued her"— quite  an  impossible  thing  to  do,  if  she  were 
not  voluntarili/y  and  thus  mechanically,  thinking.  "We 
are  next  told  that  the  scene  occurred  "before  feminine 
friendship  and  estrangements  were  founded  on  the  dis- 
tinctions between  protoplasm  and  bioplasm"— a  fearful 
suggestion  of  what  the  scene  might  be,  were  it  placed 
in  our  day.  Three  of  the  ladies  present  have  the  names 
of  Coy,  Chatty,  and  Avis;  a  young  man  reads  Spenser 
with  a  voice  which  "suffused  a  penetrative  sense  of 
pleasure,  of  unexplained  organic  joy,  like  that  of  Nature 
in  her  simpler  moods;"  and  Avis  listens  to  him  "with 
a  certain  aloofness  in  her  beauty."  The^pages  are  not 
!nerely  sprinkled,  they  are  crowded  with  such  expres- 
sions as  these,  also  with  much  better  ones,  it  is  true, 
but  sometimes  with  much  worse.  Moods  or  emotions, 
not  specially  important  in  themselves,  become  "or- 
ganic," or  "mathematical,"  or  "dynamic;"  and  color,  in 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS,  869 

particular,  is  treated  in  an  antonishing  manner.  The 
author  even  Bays  (we  italicise  the  adjectives):  "a  Vtaz^ 
ing  brown,  a  joyous  gray,  a  restlesa  green,  a  reticent 
red,  a  soraething  never  seen  before."  This  phenom- 
enon  is  connected  with  the  following  additional  fea- 
tures; "There  was  a  rising,  but  as  yet  unagitated, 
wind,  which  appealed  to,  but  did  not  stir,  the  purple 
heart  of  the  sea  morning-glories  which  sprang  from  the 
sand  across  the  wall,  The  water  had  the  Bupcrktivo 
and  unmated  meaning  of  a  September  sea.  The  near 
waves  broke  weedless  and  kindling,  clean  to  the  heart's 
core,  like  a  nature  burnt  holy  with  a  consecrated  paa^ 
sion."  A  style  like  this  is  too  fine  for  ordinary  use; 
and  so  are  the  characters.  Avis  is  an  artistic  genius, 
developed  from  a  child  whom  cooking  made  miserable^ 
and  sewing  afflicted  with  "creeps,"  and  the  sight  of  her 
aunt  fitting  gussets  "made  frantic,"  into  a  woman 
whose  moods  and  desires  reach  far  above  humanity. 
In  spite  of  all  her  sacrifices  (in  which,  as  there  is  no 
spiritual  comfort,  so  there  is  no  love),  she  remains  a 
sublime  egotist.  She  falls  into  sometliing  that  passes 
for  love,  chiefly,  we  cannot  help  suspecting,  because 
the  young  Professor  with  golden  beard  and  dark  eyes 
lookii  like  a  "Norse  god;"  she  bitterly  and  passionately 
reeista  marriage,  because  of  "its  consequences;"  and 
even  when  her  first  child  is  bom,  and  her  husband 
asks:  "Don't  you  feel  any  maternal  affection  for  the 
little  thing  r  she  coolly  answers:  "Not  a  bit  I"    This 


870  £siAys  AJ^D  iforES. 

is  not  the  Btnff  of  whioh  trae  artlBts  are  made:  the 
conception  is  not  only  falge,  but  positively  harmfnL 
We  have  already  a  sufficient  crop  of  young  women, 
who  turn  their  wholesome  necessity  of  household  duties 
into  a  piteous  cesthetio  Wettschmeray — to  say  nothing  of 
the  young  men  who  feed  their  own  vanity  by  calling 
labor  degrading,  and  lamenting  over  the  deterioration 
of  their .  souls,  whenever  they  must  earn  their  bread. 
A  creature  like  Avis  is  an  unfit,  misleading  ideal  of 
womanhood,  and  the  author's  eloquent  closing  plea  for 
a  pure  and  perfect  love  between  the  highest  types  of 
the  sexes,  loses  much  of  its  force,  in  adorning  such  a 
tale.  Miss  Phelps  is  at  her  best  in  such  scenes  os  the 
rescue  of  Avis  from  the  reof,  which  is  a  piece  of  vivid 
and  vigorous  description.  Where  she  forgets  herself, 
and  paints  nature  simply,  she  also  gives  us  fresh  and 
agreeable  touches.  Her  humor,  to  which  she  too  rarely 
allows  expression,  has  its  own  individual  quality.  But 
she  has  aimed  at  doing  tod  much,  and  has  thus  brought 
down  upon  herself  the  vengeance  of  both  human  na< 
ture  and  literary  art. 

1877.  ^ 


THREE  AMERICAN  NOVELS,  871 


THEEE  AMERICAN  NOVELS  * 

A  Law  unto  Herself.    By  Rebecca  Harding  Davis. 

The  Story  of  A  Mine.    By  Bret  Harte. 

Mirage,    No  Name  Series, 

Mrs,  Harding  Davis  is  too  thorough  and  conscien- 
tious a  writer  of  fiction,  to  undertake  (as  certain  other 
women  do)  to  supply  the  market  demand  by  producing 
two  novels  a  year.  Her  literary  reputation  has  been 
given  by  a  very  different  class  of  readers,  who  have 
learned  to  welcome  her  works  because  she  writes  only 
from  a  sincere  motive  and  adequate  material.  There- 
fore, with  all  the  narrative  skill  which  she  has  acquired, 
she  never  makes  upon  us  the  impression  of  mere 
mechanical  cleverness,  but  secures  our  earnest  interest 
simply  by  being  in  earnest  herself.  Her  earlier  works, 
with  all  their  unmistakable  power  and  originality,  were 
sometimes  marred  by  inaccuracies  of  detail,  and  in 
nearly  all  of  them  there  was  a  prevailing  undertone  of 
pain,  which  now  and  then  rose  into  a  wail  and  left  a 
depressing  effect  upon  the  reader.  But  she  has  out- 
grown both  these  defects,  one  associated  with  the  tech- 
nical and  the  other  with  the  moral  quality  of  literary 
art    She  now  presents  life  to  us  under  juster  aspects, 

*  These  being  the  last  reviewe  written  And  published  b/  th^  au- 
thor, the  editor  leares  them  untouched,  and  printa  them  aa  they  ap» 
peared  on  the  date  noted  at  the  dose. 


872  ESSAYS  AJ^TD  ITOTSS. 

with  proper  balancea  of  joy  and  woe,  and  allowB  hef 
characters  to  illustrate  themselves  by  contrasts  and  deeds, 
instead  of  subjecting*  them  to  continual  spiritual  dissec* 
tion,  "A  Law  unto  Herself"  might  have  been  consid* 
erably  expanded,  without  doing  injustice  to  the  subject. 
The  heroine,  Jane,  is  a  finely,  clearly  drawn  character, 
with  whose  frankness  and  firmness  we  are  charmed,  be- 
cause they  are  so  healthy, — and  we  a^  getting  rather 
tired  of  morbid  women  in  novels.  Her  father  is  no 
less  successfully  painted;  but  the  male  and  female  ad- 
venturers— moral  and  social  tramps,  they  might  be 
called — are  the  best  illustration  of  Mrs.  Davis's  powers. 
In  Miriam  Combe,  the  "materializing'*  medium,  and 
Mr.  Yan  Ness,  the  professional  philanthropist,  she  has 
enriched  American  fiction  by  two  new  types  of  charac- 
ter, which  are  familiar  to  everybody,  but  have  never  be- 
fore been  so  artistically  drawn.  Mr.  Neckart  and  Miss 
Fleming  are  somewhat  less  satisfactory;  we  think  too 
little  is  made  of  the  latter,  who  suggests  possibilities 
of  an  original  third  type.  She  is  an  artist,  and  a  cu- 
rious contrast  to  Miss  Phelps's  "  Avis."  However,  there 
is  not  one  person  gifted  with  painfully  fine  nerves  in 
the  whole  book.  Mrs.  Davis  has  the  higher  instinct  of 
finding  motives  in  the  myriad-fold  development  of  the 
men  and  women,  whom  she  has  seen  and  known,  in- 
stead of  scouring  the  world  for  phenomena. 

— In  the  "Story  of  a  Mine,"  Bret  Harte  goes  back 
toward   his  early  material,  certainly  to  the  delight  of 


THREE  AMERICAN  NOVELS.  373 

nine-tenths  of  his  readers.     On  the  first  page  we  meet 
Conieho  and  his  mule,  plodding  over  the  Coast  Range, 
and  we  breathe  at  once  balsamic  Califomian  air.    The 
pictures  of  scenery  are  like  those  little  landscapes  of 
Jules  Duprez,  painted  without  a  brush,  but  where  every 
touch  of  the  palette-knife  sets  exactly  the  right  amount 
of    color,  in  exactly  the  right  place.     The  episode  of 
Concho  and  the   sprained   mule  is  inimitable ;  why  can 
not  Mr,  Harte,  if  he  finds  the  construction  of  an  elab- 
orate plot  difficult  or  fatigiiing,  substitute  a  mosaic  of 
Buch  sketches,  wrouglit    into    the  forms  of   a    simpler 
story?    He  is  thoroughly  master  of  the  Spanish-Califor- 
nian  element,  sees  with  unerring  eye  what  is  piquant 
or  picturesque  in  it,  and  steeps  it  in  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  its  life;  but  he  does  not  yet  seem  well  able 
to  combine  it  with  material  so  heterogeneous  as  native 
American   speculation  and   politics.    The  incidents  fol- 
lowing the  discovery  of  the  mine;  the  forging  of  Gov- 
ernor Micheltorena's    signature    to    the  grant,    and  the 
variations  of  ownership  are  all  described  with  great  vi- 
vacity   and    freshness.    When    the   scene    of  action  is 
transferred  to  "Washington,  however,  the  reader  becomes 
confused.    The  air  of  vraisemblancf  ceases:  we  can  not 
understand  either  the  exact  position   of   the  opposing 
claimarts,  nor,  at  the  end,  why  the  failure  of  Congress 
to  act  npon  the  bill  should  have  been  caused  by  the 
fact  of  a  Senator  speaking  for  seven  hours.    This  por- 
tion of  the  story  becomes  sketchy  and  fragmentary  in 


874  £ss^yiS  Airn  notes, 

character.  "We  hare  a  very  repulsive  description  of  the 
Hon*  Mr.  Gashwiler;  a  pale  water-color  of  Mrs.  Hop- 
kinson;  the  study  of.  a  Senator,  intended  for  Charles 
Bumner;  a  bitter  piece  of  irony  applied  to  the  Civil 
Service ;  and  finally,  Carmen  de  Haro  in  so  new  a  char- 
acter  that  we  only  recognize  her  by  the  voice,  not  by 
her  acts,  as  the  same  person.  A  little  additional  labor 
might  have  fused  all  this  material  into  a  fine,  coherent 
form,  and  have  placed  the  story  among  Mr.  Harte's 
very  best  works.  It  is  certainly  better  than  anything 
he  haB  written  during  the  last  two  or  three  years.  It 
has  touches  of  his  admirable  literary  ability,  and  less  ob- 
trusion of  those  faults  which  seem  to  come  from  impa 
tience  or  carelessness.  Mr.  Harte  deserves  that  we. 
should  measure  him  by  a  high  standard  of  perform- 
ance, because  he  so  often  seems  needlessly  to  fall  short 
of  it.  This  last  story  is  fittingly  dedicated  to  Mr. 
Udo  Brachvogol,  whose  translations  of  many  of  Mr. 
Barters  stories  have  contributed  so  much  to  his  popu- 
larity in  Germany* 

—"Mirage"  is  by  the  author  of  "Kismet,"  so  of 
course,  we  are  spared  the  trouble  of  guessing.  It  may 
bo  set  beside  the*  latter  work,  as  the  two  best  novels 
of  the  "No  Name  Series."  Although  the  general  plan 
is  very  much  the  same — being  a  romance  interwoven 
with  an  episode  of  travel — there  is  an  entirely  new 
deal  of  characters,  resulting  in  a  different  plot  and  de- 
nouement   The  author  is  to  be  commended  for  resist- 


THREE  AMERICAN  NOVELS,  375 

> 

ing  the.  natural  temptation  of  canying  forward  the  same 
persons  into  another  story,  after  the  method  of  Bulwer 
and  others.    It  would  have  been  easier  to  do  this,  but 
the  evidence  of  her  ability  as  a  writer  of  fiction  would 
have  been  far  less  satisfactory.    Not  much  constructive 
power  is  developed,  as  yet ;  but  we  find  two  very  ncccs-i 
sary  qualities   freely  and  delightfully  manifested^-sasy, 
bright,    piquant,    yet  seemingly  unforced    conversation, 
and  a  descriptive  style  which  is  brilliant,  true,  poetic, 
and  all  the  more  effective  because  held  within  the  proper 
bounds.     Beginning  at  Ismailia,  on  the  Suez  Canal,  and 
closing  at  Damascus,  the  story  has  all  Palestine  aa  its 
background,  yet  keeps  itself  free  from  an  overplus  of 
local  associations.    The  courses  of  lovo  are  told  in  the 
chances  of  companionship,  in  subtle  attractions,  contrasts, 
misunderstandings  and  reticences,  rather  than  by  events, 
and  herein  the  author  shows  a  remarkable   grace  and 
delicacy  of  intellectual  texture.    Although  the  end  is  a 
half -disappointment,  it   is  sad  from  past  regret   rather 
than  from  misgiving  toward  the  future.    The  work,  in 
some  essential  particulars,  shows  an  advance  on  ^^  Kis- 
met."   The  style  is  firmer  and  more  assured,  and  the 
characters  exhibit  a  better  subordination  to  the  author's 
design.    These  will  not  be  the   last   works   from  the 
same  pen;  the  author  is  not  mistaken  in  hor  Tocation, 

Febbuabt  10, 187a 


PAT  FOR  BRAIN-WORIL 


THE  question  of  the  rewards  of  literature  in  this 
country  naturally  BUggests  the  whole   subject  of 
intellectual  as  contrasted  with  physical  labor,  and  the 
many   singular   phenomena   which    still   arise   from  it. 
The  world  is  to  some  extent  governed  by  long-inherited 
ideas  and  habits,  and  it  frequently  happens   that   one 
form  of  human   activity  is  already   emancipated   from 
the  laws  of  the  Past  and  established  upon  a  truer  foun* 
dation,  while  a  kindred  form  is  still  firmly  held  in  the 
old  bonds.    The  professions  of  Law  and  Medicine,  for 
instance,  being   recognized  as  tieccssities   of   organised 
society,  find  their  claims  to  remuneration  universally  ac- 
cepted, and  enforce  them  without  loss  of  respect;  but 
when  a  poor  author,  a  few  years  ago,  brought  suit  in  a 
Philadelphia    court  to  recover    some    money    due    him 
from    the  publisher   of  a  magazine,  his   bill,  with    its 
particulars  of  so-much  for  a  sonnet,  and  so-much  for  a 
poem,  was  made  the  subject  of  endless  legal  ridicule. 

The  distinction  between  forms  of  intellectual  labor 
is  kept  up  in  many  other  ways.     No  man  thinks  of 


PAY  FOR  BRAIN^WORK,  Z17 

calling  upon  a  lawyer  for  advice,  or  a  physician  fcr  ex- 
amination and  treatment,  or  a  merchant  for  assistance  in 
business,  without  rendering  a  full  equivalent  for  the 
service;  but  one  who  devotes  himself  to  Literature,  and 
barely  succeeds  in  subsisting  upon  its  scanty  and  uncer- 
tain returns,  is  expected  to  give  his  fullest  professional 
aid,  at  all  times,  for  the  sake  of  the  compliment  im- 
plied by  asking  itl  Nay,  more  than  this:  the  lawyer 
who  writes  a  series  of  literary  essays,  the  physician 
who  produces  a  tragedy,  the  retired  merchant  who  pon- 
ders an  epic  (such  things  frequently  happen)  feel  no 
scruples  in  claiming  two  or  three  days  of  an  author's 
time  and  thought,  and  would  probably  denounce  him 
as  mercenary,  and  unfitted  for  his  high  calling,  if  he 
hinted  at  any  payment  for  the  technical  improvements 
suggested.  Literary  reputation  thus  brings  with  it  a 
burden  which  is  rarely  balanced  by  any  worldly  advan- 
tage. Tennyson  declared,  a  few  years  after  he  had 
been  appointed  Poet-Laureate,  that  the  salary  of  a  little 
less  than  one  hundred  pounds  which  he  received  from 
the  ofiice  did  not  really  pay  for  the  time  lost  in  an- 
swering letters  for  aid  and  advice,  and  the  postage 
upon  them. 

In  this  country,  distinction  in  politics  brings  a  sim- 
ilar burden,  although  it  is  generally  accompanied  by  a 
surer  compensation.  It  was  recently  brought  forward 
as  a  serious  (if  entirely  unfounded)  accusation  against  a 
prominent  Senator,  that  he  took  pay  for  his  political 


878  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES, 

services  in  Ohio,  in  the  Fall  of  1875.  The  inference 
is  that  a  man  who  is  not  wealthy,  who  has  a  family  to 
support,  and  who  occupies  no  political  office,  must 
leave  his  professional  and  most  necessary  duties  when* 
ever  called  upon,  and  generously  refuse  all  remunera- 
tion for  the  most  exhausting  labor  known  to  men.  If 
he  ^1  <pt,  there  is  no  honesty  in  his  advocacy  of  any 
po^it  /:  principle!  Clergymen  and  lawyers  are  exempt 
both  from  the  charge  and  the  suspicion,  in  correspond- 
ing circumstances.  To  be  consistent,  the  public  should 
at  least  take  some  interest  in  securing  the  means  of  life 
to  all  from  whom  it  claims  so  much  gratuitous  service. 
At  present,  the  popular  idea  in  regard  to  payment  for 
brain-work  is  too  much  like  some  "donation  parties '* 
we  have  heard  of,  where  the  contributors  bring  a 
dozen  doughnuts  or  a  peck  of  potatoes,  and  help  de- 
vour the  parson's  only  turkeys. 

1876. 


AUTHORSHIP  IN  AMERICA. 

MoRB  than  one  paragraph  has  been  going  the  ronndi 
of  the  Press,  professing  to  give  the  pecuniary  »tatu9y 
and  consequent  necessity  for  extra-literary  work,  of  va- 
rious American  authors.  These  statements  have  led  to 
some   newspaper   discussion    of   the   question    whether 


AUTHORSHIP  IN  AMERICA.  379 

literary  labor  is  adequately  rewarded  in  this  country. 
We  find,  on  comparing  the  articles  which  have  thus 
far  appeared,  that  they  represent  one  or  the  other  of 
two  widely  differing  views:  Firstly,  we  have  the  flip- 
pant assertion  that  material  success  always  follows  gen- 
uine intellectual  achievement,  and  if  an  author  cannot 
support  himself  by  his  works,  the  fault  lies  in  tho  lat^ 
ter,  not  in  a  public  eager  to  recognize  genius;  and  sec- 
ondly, we  have  the  admission  that  the  standard  of  ap- 
preciation among  the  mass  of  American  readers  is  not 
yet  sufficiently  elevated  to  make  the  best  literary  work 
in  any  degree  remunerative.  Much  of  what  currently 
passes  for  criticism  is  colored  by  one  or  the  other  of 
these  views.  The  former  is  alert  to  detect  faults  or 
shortcomings,  which  it  charges  directly  to  the  author's 
account:  the  latter  is  warm  and  genial,  if  sometimes  a 
little  indiscriminate  in  its  commendation.  But  hearty 
and  intelligent  acceptance  of  an  author's  place  in  the 
economy  of  a  Nation  is  something  which  does  not  yet 
exist  among  us. 

The  question  whether  authorship  is  remunerative 
here  cannot  be  answered  by  a  simple  Yes  or  No.  "We 
must  overlook  the  whole  subject,  from  that  base  of 
mirthful,  entertaining,  superficial  literature  which  is 
adapted  to  the  obvious  taste  of  the  day,  up  to  the 
slender  apex  of  pure  thought  and  imagination  which  ia 
for  all  time.  The  experience  of  every  author  and  pub- 
liBher  in   this   oountry   establishes   the    fact   that   the 


880  ESSAYS   AND    NOTES, 

lower  and  cheaper  forms  of  literature  are  best  re- 
warded, and  that  the  results  steadily  diminish  as  the 
author  rises  to  higher  and  more  permanent  achieve^ 
ment.  Examples  thereof  might  be  multiplied  until 
they  embrace  the  whole  literary  history  of  the  United 
States.  Mr.  Frothingham  tells  us,  in  his  "History  of 
Transcendentalism,'*  that  twelve  years  elapsed  before  the 
first  five  hundred  copies  of  Emerson's  "Nature" — the 
result  of  long  and  earnest  thought — were  purchased  by 
the  public.  Ilawthome  toward  the  close  of  his  life 
succeeded  in  living  from  year  to  year  on  the  proceeds 
of  his  immortal  romances,  but  the  author  of  "St. 
Elmo"  is  the  only  American  writer  of  fiction  to  whom 
a  publisher  will  pay  fifteen  thousand  dollars  for  a  novel, 
on  receipt  of  the  manuscript.  "Washington  Irving,  one 
of  the  most  brilliantly  successful  of  our  authors,  re* 
ceived  just  two  hundred  and  four  thousand  dollars  for 
more  than  fifty  years  of  arduous  literary  labor— four 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  the  wages  of  a  chief  clerk  1 

Literature,  the  very  blossom  of  the  civilization  of  a 
race,  assuredly  could  not  flourish  on  our  soil  were  it 
not  that  our  best  authors  have  been  legitimately  bom 
to  their  vocation,  and  must  follow  it  under  wlmtovor 
dltlluultlus  and  discouragemoiits.  Ours  is  the  only  civ* 
ilizcd  nation  in  which  literary  achievement  is  not  prac- 
tically recognized  by  the  Government.  There  is  not 
yet  a  chair  of  American  Literature  in  any  one  of  our 
Colleges    or    Universities.      The    claims    of    an    author 


AUTHORSHIP  IN  AMERICA,  381 

whose  nature  demands  the  higher  forms  of  expression 
are  properly  contested  at  the  outset;  but  after  years  of 
struggle  have  tried  his  intellectual  thews  and  brought 
him  the  recognition  of  the  few  from  whom  he  craves 
it,  he  must  content  himself  with  the  latter — for  It  is 
about  all  the  reward  he  will  receive.  The  usual  fate 
of  him  who  is  not  so  fortunate  as  to  inherit  a  compe- 
tence, or  to  find  some  form  of  labor  which  allows  him 
leisure  enough  for  his  own  studies,  is  to  receive  wise 
admonitions  as  to  his  proper  work  on  the  one  hand, 
and  on  the  other  to  be  overwhelmed  with  the  manu- 
scripts of  aspiring  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  which 
he  cannot  praise  with  honesty  nor  criticise  without 
giving  offense. 

But  when  Emerson,  who  more  than  any  other  au- 
thor has  exalted  the  character  of  our  Literature  abroad 
— who  is  the  rightful  Chief  of  the  guild  of  American 
Authors — gives  his  life  to  his  work,  without  a  thought 
of  pecuniary  reward;  when  Longfellow  and  Whittier 
sing  for  the  repayment  they  find  in  the  song  iiself; 
when  Lowell  gives  the  same  labor  to  one  of  his  Es- 
says as  would  bring  a  shower  of  gold  to  the  lawyer, 
physician,  or  merchant — ^no  author  need  complain  of 
scanty  encouragement,  grudging  recognition,  or  inade- 
quate recompense.  No  one,  so  far  as  we  know,  dcei 
so  complain.  The  poet,  novelist,  historian,  or  critic  by 
the  grace  of  God  finds  his  life  in  his  work,  and  can 
not  live  without  it    Perhaps  some  grace  may  be  lodt| 


38d  JSSS^A  VS  AND  NOTES. 

some  oonsoiooB  sense  of  hope  and  strength  be  missings 
where  the  larger  recognition  is  withheld ;  bnt  the  least 
breath  will  keep  a  flame  alive.  Let  ns,  however,  hear 
no  more  of  American  authors  working  solely  for  pay, 
and  being  paid  according  to  the  intrinsic  excellence  of 
their  work!  The  gains  of  literary  labor  have  been  ex- 
aggerated in  all  countries,  and  probably  nowhere  more 
than  in  this.  It  will  be  many  ages  before  the  devo- 
tion, the  absorption  of  a  life  in  an  aim,  the  untiring 
intellectual  effort  which  are  the  portion  of  an  author, 
will  bring  him  the  same  reward  as  an  equal  labor 
yields  to  the  other  professions. 

1876. 


THE   END. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  G.  P,  PUTNAMS  SONS. 

Studies  in  German  Literature,  By  Bayard  Taylor, 
Edited  by  Marie  Taylor.  With  an  introduction  by  the  Hon. 
Geo.  H.  Boker,     Octavo,  cloth  extra,    ,        .        ,    •    «    $2  35 

••  A  thoroughly  excellent  work,  admirably  fulfilling  the  purpose  for  which 
it  was  written.  *  *  *,  It  forms  the  best  introduction  to  German  literat  ire  the 
English  student  can  lay  hands  upon.  Leaves  nothing  to  be  desired  by  tho 
aspiring  student  who  wishes  for  a  guide,  or  by  the  general  reader  who  is  (desirous 
of  trustworthy  and  vigorous  sketches  of  the  leading  features  of  the  literature  of 
Germany."—  £<»«</(W  Spectator^ 

**  Without  having  received  the  last  touches  of  the  author's  hand,  it  is  con- 
spicuous for  the  modest  learning,  admirable  judgement,  profound  insight,  and 
wls«»  criticism."— A^.  K.  Tribune, 

r  "  The  work  of  a  painstaking  scholar,  who  can  select  with  rare  discernment 
what  should  come  to  tne  foreground  of  attention,  and  has  the  power  of  express* 
ing  his  own  views  with  extraordinary  gncc'^^-LiUraty  Worid, 

"Admirable  for  their  clear,  discriminating  taste  and  strong  equol  criticism, 
*****  The  author's  power  of  imparting  to  others  his  own  comprehension 
of  an  artist's  scope  and  quality  is  something  very  xMt  "'^Springfield  He* 
publican* 

'*  These  lectures  are  intended  to  serve  as  an  '  introduction  '  to  the  literature 
of  Germany,  and  a  more  enticing  one  it  would  be  hard  to  find." — N.  K.  Hetald% 

••It  is  full  of  the  most  subtle  and  suggestive  criticism." — AppUton*s 
youmal, 

*'  The  volume  has  a  very  particular  value,  for  it  treats  on  subjects  concern* 
ing  which  Mr.  Taylor  was  in  every  way  qualified  to  speak  with  the  voice  of  au« 
thority." — Phila,  Evening  Telegraph, 

"  There  could  be  no  better  guide  placed  in  the  hands  of  any  dtsiring  to 
begin  the  study  of  this  great  and  rich  Wi^nXyxxt,** -^Harper^s  Weekly, 

"It  is  a  masterly  exhibition  of  Mr,  Taylor's  practical  scholarship. **-«• 
Hartford  Courant, 

"  These  lectures,  are  in  character,  elementary  and  popular  *  *  *  and  show 
the  author's  wide  knowledge  of  German."— /^flnf/i7r</  Times, 

"  They  are  full  of  the  products  of  wide  and  accurate  scholarship,  and  sUovf 
A  subtlety  and  depth  of  analytical  power."— Z)</tr«»7  Free  Press, 

*  The  lectures  on  Lessing,  Schiller  and  Goethe,  are  each  worth  the  price  of 
the  book."— ^nvi/K»  EagU, 

"  The  volume  is  admirably  adapted  to  the  needs  of  students  of  Gcruan 
Literature."— ^^//^  Evening  Transcript, 

"  The  touch  of  Bayard  Taylor  is  always  so  vivifyine  that  it  is  delightful  to 
the  mature  scholar  as  well  as  to  the  student."— AA7«MiM«r/  SenHneU 


PUBLICATIoks  OF  d.  P.  PUTNAM* S  SONS. 

mmmmm^m     i  i     ■      i  i    iim— ^———— —————— —  ■  w  ■  O 

BAYARD  TAYLOR'S  TRAVELS. 

Eldorado ;  or,  Adventures  m  the  Path  of  Empiric 
(Mexico  and  California).  lamo.  Houshold  edition,  $1.50 
'•  To  those  who  have  more  recently  pitched  their  tents  in  California,  the 
narrative  of  Taylor  will  have  interest  as  assisting  them  to  appreciate  the 
wondrous  changes  that  have  been  affected  in  this  region  since  the  days  of 
turmoil,  excitement,  and  daring  speculation  of  which  the  tourist  speaks."— 
Sacramento  Union. 

Central  Africa.    Life   and   Landscape   from  Cairo  to 
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hold edition,  .         »         .         ,         .        ,        .     S1.50 
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wrote  one  that  was  not  extremely  interesting — but  we  have  never  been  so 
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Greece  and  Russia.    With   an   Excursion  to  Crete, 

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'—'Ta union  Gazette, 

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